On Murder, False Deaths, and A Good, Old-Fashioned Love Affair
by Touched By Fire
Summary: Molly Hooper has one job: make Sherlock Holmes fall helplessly, ridiculously, head-over-heels in love with her. But when the reverse starts to happen, Molly has to wonder who exactly she's been trusting that maybe she shouldn't. Consists mainly of the beautiful, beautiful concept known as Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thanks for reading my story! This is my first time doing this (even though I have previous writing experience), and I would really appreciate any input you could give me. I'll wait until I have a couple reviews before posting the next chapter. You guys rock!**

Chapter One:

_Molly_

It was nearly sunset. The sky's fine blue was beginning to dim into a cool magenta, and some unseen painter was brushing the clouds pink. The sun was fading fast, and its rays were lava, setting everything it touched to a brilliant fire. I sling my bag up higher on my shoulder and make my way through the cold, quiet hospital.

"Hey, Molly." I turn to see Mike Stamford, a fat, bespectacled doctor in another department, jogging towards me down Bart's long halls. He and I have always been friendly, so I give him a smile. "Hi, Mike." I resist the urge to giggle as he bends over, trying to catch his breath from the "long" run in the corridor.

He recovers and straightens. "Glad I caught you. You're not done yet, they need you to tell this new bloke about Jacob LaCaunte."

I sigh querulously. "I already finished all mine! Why don't they get someone else to do it, for once?"

Mike nods apologetically. "I know, I know." He puts his hands up in a mock defensive way. "Don't shoot the messenger."

I offer him a taut smile and turn to go back to the lab before remembering to ask, "Oh, who is it, a rookie DI?"

Mike laughs. "No, it's some bloke helping the police. Calls himself a "consulting detective"."

My heart stops.

Mike's still laughing. ""Only one in the world" he says. What a cocky creature, eh? Must be good, though, for the police to let him in. Anyway, see you, Molly!"

I try to regain compose and wave goodbye normally, but my blood is still frozen. I swallow, and give myself a pep talk as I walk into my lab, my lonely heels echoing loudly against the cement walls.

I wash my hands in the restroom, knowing I'm stalling. When they can't possibly get any cleaner, I dry my hands and slowly, assiduously make my way into the mortuary.

He's waiting for me in the morgue. When he turns to look at me, my breath has to catch, and I try my hardest to hide it.

He's gorgeous. His cheekbones are high and chiseled, and he has curly, dark brown hair, the kind that shouldn't be attractive but is in the most superlative manner. He's tall, but not muscular, and he has a very sharp, cutting nose set at an almost perfect right angle. His lips are fixed in a tight, totally fake, smile. But his eyes are the most fascinating. The most interesting shade of blue-green, they're tinted gray and display a sharp, brusque intelligence and a selfishness he doesn't bother to hide.

I smile nervously at him, but the forced smile has already left his lips. I put out my hand for a shake, but he turns away from it. "Where's the body?"

I swallow my anger and continue on my crusade. "I'm Molly Hooper." This time I shove my extended hand in his face, forcing him to acknowledge it. I bite my lip. "And you are?"

He looks at me questioningly, not like I was being rude, but more like I was a curious specimen he wanted the chance to study, only intensifying my anger. He accepts the shake. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

My laugh is edgy and strained. "I've never heard of a consulting detective."

"Just because you've never heard of it doesn't mean it doesn't exist," he says, popping the ending "t" and staring me right in the eye. I swallow.

"I invented the job. It means that when the police act even more idiotic than usual, I loan my brilliance for a couple hours."

Was he _trying _to be an asshole? If so, he was doing a spectacular job.

I roll out Jacob LaCaunte's corpse, not looking Sherlock Holmes in the eye—it didn't matter anyway, because what limited amount of attention that was focused on me had transferred over to the dead man. I could be a clipboard for all he cared. All I was to him was a source of information.

Trying not to show how much that irritated me, I grab my own clipboard. "Cause of death asphyxiation. Had a heart valve problem and—oh, here's something I found interesting." Now the full force of his regard is on me, and I fidget uncomfortably. "Minor bruising around the throat. I thought strangulation at first, but they're too insignificant to cause death."

When he looks up from the cadaver, I can literally _see _his mind racing, his eyes acting like a window to the contents of his obviously superb brain, his voice going probably even too slow for his thought process. "Man starts to strangle him, Jacob panics, his heart gives out, he's dead before the attacker can finish the job. The attacker runs, taking this as a miracle; now there won't be a murder investigation."

I stare at the amateur with wide eyes. _How _did I not figure that out? I was supposed to be the pathologist. Sure, I noticed the bruising, but I hadn't made the leap to murder—at least, not yet. Embarrassed, I look down as he gets his coat on, getting ready to leave. "Please correct the paperwork and give it to me before you leave, I'll be upstairs."

And he's out before I can even breathe.

I take a deep breath. I was not expecting that.

I login to my laptop and retype the report, adding homicide to the cause of death. I print out the report and stop by the bathroom to put on some lipstick and mascara before heading upstairs.

He's in the research lab, using the microscope. "Here," I say, setting down the folder right in front of him. He looks up from his studies. "Thank you, Molly."

Not put off by his comfortable and rather rude use of my first name, I take a deep breath. "I was—"

He does a double take. "You're wearing lipstick, you weren't wearing lipstick before."

Taken off guard, I splutter something about refreshing it. _At least he hadn't noticed the mascara._

"Sorry, go on."

I exhale and continue determinedly, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

He looks up from the microscope after a beat, and for the first time, gives me a half-genuine smile. "Black, two sugars, please."

Then he goes back to his microscope.

That did not go well.

"Okay," I say, walking stiffly out of the room, the consulting detective utterly oblivious.

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading my fic! The first chapter is the worst, I promise. Please read the next one before forgetting it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thanks for all the views! I'm posting this chapter sooner than expected, so please, please review. Just take thirty seconds to tell me what you think, be it positive or negative.**

Chapter Two:

_Sherlock_

I walk into the flat, the euphoric buzz still clouding rationality as I flop myself down on my chair. John makes his way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and I chuckle. "What a night!" I exhale loudly, still laughing.

John fixes me with a look. "You almost died. Someone _did _actually die. I shot him. That is not what I would say 'What a night!' to."

"Oh, don't be a downer." I uncurl myself from the chair to take off my coat. Something suddenly occurring to me, I turn to face John, a question evident on my face. "Why _did _you shoot him?"

John pauses, two cups of tea in his hands, even though he probably knows by now I won't drink one. The way he looks at me tells me it should be obvious, and abruptly I feel self-conscious. "Because you were in danger."

I look at my new flatmate sideways. "You just met me."

He sighs exasperatingly and sets the mugs down roughly. "And right now I kind of wish I hadn't."

I narrow my eyes at him. He's making no sense at all, but I let it slide. I sit back down in my chair, and John sits in the one opposite me. I close my eyes and steeple my fingers underneath my chin, going to my mind palace.

My mind palace is vast and informational. It's structured rather like Buckingham Palace, but each tile has a different obscure fact on it, and each room a theme, the walls scribbled on with what looks like magic marker. I find the most recent room and start updating the events of today; the cabbie's odd trick, his taunting manner, the blood spurting from his wounds as John shot him—

John clears his throat, and I snap out of my mind, glaring at him. "Do you mind?"

He looks at me expectantly. I stare back uncomprehendingly. "What?"  
John sighs. "Are you going to apologize to Molly Hooper?"

I pause, thinking. "Who?"

John pauses, and I can tell by his face that he's annoyed. "The pathologist."

I go back into my mind palace, into today's room, searching, searching . . . ah, there she is, in a little private corner. I remember now—Molly Hooper, the mousy pathologist who would've been just another insignificant moron who can't do their own job if not for—the memory of Molly's hard look as she shoved her hand into my face, insisting I acknowledge her, plays back in my mind and a smile comes to my face subconsciously. I knew she had asked me out, but I didn't want to go out with Molly Hooper. I didn't want to go out with anybody, but certainly not bumbling Molly.

Why did I remember her?

Today's room (which I have dubbed "A Study in Scarlet" for the blood-red strands of thread that bind this world) suddenly has a lot more Molly Hooper, her face, staring at me in that hard way, plastering the easternmost wall. I whip my head away from it, refusing to look at it; maybe because I feel bad that I mistreated her.

"Sherlock!" John's staring at me, more than annoyed now. I come back to reality to say, "Yes, sorry, what was that?"

John's being very patient. "I said, I think you should apologize to her."

I give him a sharp look. "What, why would I do that?"

He purses his lips. "You did insult her looks."

I roll my eyes. "I do that to everyone. Her mouth _is _too small, anyway."

He sighs, irritated. "Okay, it's obvious this conversation's over. I'm going to bed. _I've had a long night_." He emphasizes the last sentence, probably wanting me to notice, or something, but I pay no mind. John turns away, and I catch some sort of negative mutter, but I ignore it. I must investigate my mind palace. It's faulty.

"What were you thinking, the pork or the pasta?"

Molly jumps, making me work to resist laughing. "Oh, it's you!"

_Who else would it be? _I keep my air of polite friendliness. "This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?"

Molly seems nervous. _Perfect. _"I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want to be doing roast pork, not if you're slicing up cadavers." I turn on my most charming smile, and it must work because she returns it. "What are you having?" she asks conversationally, and I match her tone. "Don't eat while I'm working. Digestion slows me down."

If she was put off by the strangeness of my being, she didn't show it. Instead, she says (with a note of contained excitement), "So you're working here tonight?"

I nod absentmindedly, suddenly realizing (with no little concern) that I was excited that she was excited. Odd. "Need to examine some bodies."

Molly hesitates, anticipating my next request. "'Some?""

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

She looks down at her clipboard. "They're on my list."

_Yes, of course they are, why else would I be talking to you? _I put on my best puppy-dog eyes. "Could you wheel them out again . . . for me?"

Molly worries her lip. "Well, the paperwork's already gone through . . ."

Ah. She's more dedicated than I anticipated. Well, she _could _get fired for this, but still. I try my last reserve. "You changed your hair."

"What?" She had, parted it on the side with a little bun finishing on her right. It looked . . . really good, actually. "The style. It's usually parted in the middle."

Usually when I tell people things like that, a shot of alarm goes through their eyes: _Oh my God, that creeper. I use a different _shampoo_ and he notices!_ But Molly's just warmed with pleasure at not being invisible for once. She smiles, flattered. "Yes, well . . ."

I shake my head, indicating she had the wrong impression. "No, no, it's . . . good. It suits you better this way."

Molly's face filled with happiness at my words, and she nods. "Oh, okay . . . um, follow me."

She walks out of the cafeteria, and I smirk behind her. _Too easy. _

The last few pitiful rays of sunlight were leaving, and the sky was turning purple in anticipation of the coming night. I walk up the stairs to Molly's flat, a thick folder in my hand, and ring the doorbell impatiently. She comes over the intercom, "Yes, who is it?"

The intercom doesn't have a video monitor. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

I can hear the surprise in her voice. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I have the paperwork for Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis. They want you to retype it."

I hear a sigh. "Come on up."

I walk in the door and up another set of stairs before diplomatically knocking at Molly's door. She opens it with that bashful, embarrassed smile she always seems to wear around me, and I hand her the folder. "Your boss says that you showed good judgement in letting me see the bodies. He gave you a fifty-pound bonus." I hand her the check, and her eyebrows raise.

Looking over her shoulder into her flat, I see a fairly poor twenty-six-year-old, graduated early (as evidence from her framed diploma) with not had a lot of success in the romantic department (jewelry box almost empty, the state of her hair and dress, not to mention her profession). Has a dead father (too many framed photographs and scrapbooks for it to be simply familial attachment) and a worried mother (overflowing email inbox, several unopened letters, landline blinking _Five Missed Calls From Mom_). Three brothers, and from the unframed picture not close to any of them, though one is getting married (_Ralph's Wedding_ on the calendar, can't be a cousin or friend because Molly doesn't have any friends who are men and if she's not close to brothers, she's certainly not close to extended family). Was just getting ready to call someone (cell phone out and opened to Phone), certainly not her mother, possibly her engaged brother, but she's not part of the wedding so that's not likely, not a food establishment, she already ate—take-out containers in the trash—so probably a friend, judging by the late hour.

I allow my lips to curl up, as I always do when I make a series of brilliant deductions. She mistakes my smile for happiness at her financial gain, and smiles back. "Thanks for bringing it over."

"Mmh. I'll see you tomorrow, DI Lestrade wants me to look over some corpses."

I turn to go, but Molly pipes up nervously. "Um, Sherlock? Why did you bring this over?"

I stare at her blankly. "Because your boss has the week off and he wanted me to give this to you."

She fidgets. "Yeah, but why bring it over tonight? Why not tomorrow?"

_Yes, why would I do that? _I pause, staring at her in alarm. _Was it because I wanted to see her flat? Because I wanted her to be happy that she helped me? Or did I want an opportunity to apologize, like John suggested? _I mumble something about being in the neighborhood and sweep out as quickly as I can, my coat billowing up behind me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**:** Thank you to Bella Cuore and Ligya M for following my story! You guys are awesome!**

**Please review. I would really appreciate any input, any at all (even one telling me to stop asking for reviews!) that you could give me.**

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Chapter Three:

_Molly_

The night was ending and the victorious sun rising, bragging its power of heat and light. I stare out my window and watch it rise, its fresh rays streaking the sky with a vivid red and orange.

It had been a long night. After coming home from work, I had planned on spending a pleasant evening alone watching reruns of _Doc Martin _with Toby, my little gray-and-white-striped tabby. But then Sherlock came for almost no reason at all—I had been up all night thinking about it. Was it possible my plan was working? It had certainly been much harder than I had anticipated, but then, getting Sherlock Holmes to fall in love would be.

But what really worried me is how much _I _had been thinking about him.

His deep brown curls. His high cheekbones. His beautiful eyes, staring clear into my soul, seeing things others couldn't possibly.

And there was something . . . regal about how he risked his life, everyday, to solve crimes and make the world a better place. Well, I suppose he got _some _enjoyment out of it, but it didn't make it any less heroic.

But not just his physical features, as handsome as they may be, or his acts of bravery. But his quiet humor, his cunning way of making you do _exactly _what he wanted, his brilliant method of knowing everything about you. While not all together _good _traits—and certainly not crush-worthy ones—they were to be respected, admired.

Loved?

No, no, no. Not even. Molly Hooper, love Sherlock Holmes? Please.

But if not love, what is it? Obsession, surely, and if anything, that was worse.

I sigh, and flick my tired eyes over to my alarm, blinking **4:03 am.** Oh, God. I need to be at work in four hours. I squeeze my eyes shut and command my exhausted body to sleep, blanking my mind. Thankfully, my grateful body obeys, and I am released from the world and into an area of warm, pleasant nothingness.

_Beep. Beep. Beeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeep! Beeeeep! BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP! _**_BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!_**

I awaken with a start, my alarm still blaring blatantly. Resisting the urge to chuck it against the wall, I hit the **OFF** button and lie back down.

I could take a sick day, but I was planning on having my birthday off. I could take a half day, but right after a bonus? My boss would think I was being imprudent and cocky.

Out of ideas, I throw the covers off (not without a sigh or two), revealing cool air to my bare legs, and pad over to the bathroom, hair in about twenty different directions and breath horribly olfactory.

Three-quarters of an hour later, I bustle out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my wet hair and rapidly get my stuff together. Without bothering to dry said wet hair, I jog out of the apartment and hail a taxi.

I had remembered Sherlock's hair comment, how it looked better parted to the side, and styled it that way again. And although I know that he was just flattering me so I'd let him look at some corpses, I can't help but wonder if he actually meant it. But he noticed.

Jim never noticed.

I dash into the hospital fifteen minutes late and hurry to the mortuary. If Sebastian Moran, the supervisor while the boss was gone, had noticed I was late . . .

I rush into the morgue and stop short. Sherlock Holmes is leaning against the table, the one that usually holds the dead bodies. "Oh," is all I can say, breathless from my mad race against the clock. "Hello," he says, breezy but unsmiling, and he gets up and walks over to me. He locks eyes with me for a moment, and I break away to grab the clipboard that had been set out for me. "You're here early," I say to the ground.

He doesn't miss a beat. "I could say the same about you."

"Hey!" I whip my head up, meeting him with a glare. "Don't poke fun."

He's frozen for a minute, probably in shock at my breaking character, and I mentally curse myself. Timid and admiring, that's what would get him. Playing to his ego. My scared, intimidated little presence being a constant compliment to him. I look away even before he could say, "Okay, I surrender."

I feel my cheeks turn red and flip through papers on the clipboard simply for something to do. "Who do you want? You'll have to come back later, I haven't had the time to do any yet."

"That's okay," Sherlock says, pulling up a chair and pressing his fingers together before resting is chin on them. "I'll wait."

"But—"

He waves aside my complaints. "Oh, don't worry, I'll go to my mind palace. I won't even be in the room."

I laugh nervously. "Sorry, what?"

He sighs, and I can _see _the word "Tedious" fly across his mind. "My mind palace. I organize my mind into a house, each room filled with information, should I choose to go into it. Theoretically, you can never forget anything, and I never have, unless I deleted it. Over the years, my house has grown into a palace."

A quick laugh escapes me. "How is that possible? You can't actually remember _everything_; you'd have to forget _some _things."

Sherlock looks insulted. "The universe is expanding. I can't see why my memory capacity cannot."

I laugh out loud and he looks startled-startled, and rather pleased. "Although, to be fair to the universe, its rate of expansion is a _tiny _bit faster than mine. Only by a million kilometers per second or so."

I giggle softly, contemplating. I bite my lip, daring myself to ask. "Am . . . _I _in your mind palace?"

He stares at me, and I stare back awkwardly. The silence grows like some horrible bacteria, infiltrating every peaceable corner of the room, until I turn away and his chin comes to rest on his fingers again.

The autopsy only took an hour or two, with Sherlock quiet and placid the entire time; until the end, when he stood up and watched me work. It was nerve-wracking; I had never had anyone but the inspection committee watch me work, and I felt fumbly, but he made no comment the entire time, which makes me think I did a good job.

So Sherlock Holmes left reasonably satisfied—he was right, it was murder.

After work, I take a cab home to take a shower and get changed before my dinner date tonight, with this really awesome guy named Jim Moriarty.

I had met Jim about two years ago. My father had just died, and I was deep in debt from all the medical bills that my mom didn't have the money to help me with and my brothers didn't care enough to. I was going to a loan shark—I had no choice—when, outside of the shop, a voice stopped me. "I wouldn't go in there I were you."

I had turned and a figure had come out of the shadows. "Why not?" I asked. The man chuckled. "Because you'll fall even further. But I can help you out. I'll give you all the money and you don't even have to pay me back."

I remember laughing scrutinizingly. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you'll work for me. Just simple, easy stuff, not dangerous or anything."

I had raised my eyebrows. "What kind of stuff?"

He had hesitated. "Sometimes I may need information, and you may be the girl to get it."

My throat tightened. "You mean spying."

He had laughed. "No, no. Nothing illegal. God, of course not! Just stuff like who's having an affair with who, that sort of thing. Gossip."

I had hesitated, buying for time. "I wouldn't be good at that kind of thing."

He had laughed. "Oh, don't underestimate yourself. I'm sure you'd be great. An all-knowing smirk attached itself to his face. "With all your acting experience."

I had gone white. "How-" I had taken a deep breath, and tried again. "_How _did you know that?"

He said nothing, just widened his cocky smile.

I hadn't trusted him, but he was better than a loan shark. "Okay."

The memory faded into the shower mist as I stepped out, glad to have the dead-body smell out of my hair. Not exactly the most attractive thing in the universe.

I get dressed in a simple dress and text him: _On my way over._

A couple minutes later, he replies, _Alright. See you then, darling._

When I get to his large flat, he greets me with a smile and a kiss. "You look great, darling. Come on in."

I walk in to see his dining room table covered with a white tablecloth and an elegant but cute homemade dinner. "Oh, Jim! It looks great."

He smiles and even pulls the chair out for me. I giggle to myself. He's the perfect boyfriend, _much _better than any snotty consulting detective.

For about half the dinner, everything is perfect. We talk about work and friends and Ralph, my brother, who's getting married. But just before we're ready for dessert, he switches topics.  
"So, have you gotten anywhere on that assignment I gave you?"

I wince. "I try to, Jim, but it just doesn't work. He shuts me down every time I try to make an advance."

He groans. "Molls, you have to understand how important this mission is. Sherlock Holmes—"

"—is super important for some reason that you _can't tell me_." My voice drips with sarcasm as I bring up the reason for most of our domestics the past year and a half.

Jim groans again. "Can we _please _not go into that again? It's to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" My voice betrays how angry I am.

He just shakes his head. "Molly, please. Let's not argue. But just_ try_ to make progress. All we need is a date or two, and I'm sure he'll be head-over-heels for you."

I sigh, then form a sly, flirtatious expression. "Won't you be jealous?"

He mirrors my visage, obviously grateful for the change in subject. "I'll try to control myself."

"Please don't," I say, and we lunge for each other at the same time, pressing our lips together. I open my mouth and sigh contentedly, and we lip-wrestle for a little while before he gently breaks away. "Any other news?"

"Ah, Jim," I complain, but he ignores my tone. "I think I'll have to meet him, to gauge his intelligence in order to decide how to act. I'll pretend to be your boyfriend."

I look away. I could tell my voice was trembling as I said, "But you _are _my boyfriend."

He looks down at me, suddenly realizing what he said, and grips my shoulders. "I know, darling, I didn't mean it like that." He leans in to my ear and half-whispers, "It'll be a double bluff, see. If he thinks anything at all, he's think we're not actually together. But we _are _together, so he'll be wrong either way."

Jim draws back, and I wish he hadn't. I sigh. "How much longer will I have to do this, Jim? He's not a man. He's—he's—he's a _psychopath!"_

"High functioning sociopath," Jim corrects, and I roll my eyes, having previously accepted Jim's intelligence equal or superior to Sherlock's. "Same difference. What I'm saying is he's rude, annoying, arrogant, self-centered, and condescending." My words are harsh and my tone bitter, but I can't stop. "I will relish the day when he lies lifeless on my table."

**Author's Note: Whew! Okay, that was fun. ****_Please _****tell me if you were expecting that (if so, your powers of deduction are marvelous), or if you were shocked silly.**

**Post-script: Don't worry, when the Sherlolly kisses come up (and they ****_will _****come, just be patient), they'll be ****_much _****more detailed.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**** Hello again! Eternal thanks to Icecat62, Hikiaka, and viieen for following and favorite-ing (a word I just coined) my story, and thank you, xcvokout and the-art-of-escape, for following it! And even ****_more _****thanks to Hikiaka and the-art-of-escape for reviewing my story (God bless you!)! You guys make writing so much more fun!**

**It's great getting feedback. Some of the things I didn't think would work did, and some things I thought would be great weren't so much, so it's great to be able to adjust based on ****_others' _****opinions, not just my own. :)**

**I had a little trouble with transferring these scenes (with the beautiful, beautiful acting found only in Benedict, Martin, Loo, and Andrew!) into story, so if anyone has any tips or ideas for me, I'd love to hear them.**

Chapter Four:

_Sherlock_

_Carl Powers. _Finally, a mastermind who can play.

I gaze into my microscope, looking for the tiny, near-invisible specks that can change whether an organism is identified as deadly or lifesaving. I see the oddity almost faster than the computer does, and give my exclamation of grim triumph as the computer tells me SEARCH COMPLETE. _Even the _computer_'s an idiot._

Molly Hooper is there, acting nervous, shy, and happy-go-lucky all at the same time, as is her custom. "Any luck?"

I give her a sour smile, trying desperately to forget how she sassed me so elegantly. "Oh, yes."

The door suddenly opens, and Molly turns. Her face lights up, and I can hear in her voice what a stroke of good fortune this is for her, and how surprised she is that something actually went her way, for once. "Jim! Hi! Come in, come in."

"Jim" is . . . oh, for God's sake. Gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay, _gay. _Why can't people just see? Why can't people, namely Molly, foolish, trusting, affectionate Molly, just open their eyes and _see_?

Tinted eyelashes, makeup touching up the frown lines, underwear, observable above the waist—I know that brand. And the _hair product_! Even John doesn't put in that much, and he spends more time on his hair than Molly does.

She's still parted it to the side. Molly's hair, I mean. It _does _look better that way, but she never wears it down. Probably some foolish, unjustified insecurity thing, but I think it would look . . . really quite nice, actually.

Wait. What?

"Jim," Molly says, in the air of a little girl showing off her prized doll to a new friend, "this is Sherlock Holmes."

By the longing in her voice as she spoke my name, I can tell she's not into this guy at all. "And, um . . ." Molly hesitates, looking at John with apologetic question in her eyes. I resist the urge to laugh. "Sorry, um . . . ."

John sighs. "John Watson, hi," he says to Molly's "boyfriend", obviously put off that the pretty (and more importantly: female) doctor couldn't remember his name, but for the first time, Molly doesn't seem to notice. She's too caught up in Jim—and me. Obviously.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," Jim seems a little nervous, but just as excited. Wait . . . is he _interested _in me? "Are you on one of your cases?"

_Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away._

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly giggles lightheartedly, but her message is clear: _See? I don't need you. I have a boyfriend of my own._

That did it. "Gay," I say, my voice flat and monotonous.

Molly's face falls faster than gravity could possibly take it. "Sorry, what."

Uh, oh. The edge to her dangerously calm tone and that spark of fury in her eyes makes me regret my words. "Nothing . . . um, _hey_."

Jim nods, uncomfortable. "Hey. Oop!"

The tray clatters loudly and obnoxiously, only adding to the strained tension. "Sorry." Molly's "boyfriend" picks up the tray and sets it back on the table, with—oh, Molly.

His _number_. "Jim from IT", the bragged-about Jim, the "great" boyfriend Jim, had slipped his _number _under the tray for me to find.

Well. This was good, right? Wasn't it better for Molly to find out now, instead of later, when she was more emotionally invested?

John's behind me, looking edgy and out of place. I can tell he's upset—wait, did I do something wrong? What could I have possibly done wrong?

Molly's eyes are on the floor, and I can tell she's struggling to compose herself. Well, this is good. It would've been even more difficult for her later, right?

"Well, I'd better be off." Jim-from-IT breaks the awkwardness and moves to go out the door. "I'll see you at the Fox—about sixish?"

Molly musters enough courage for a smile and a nod. "Yeah!"

"Bye," Jim's looking at me, but Molly answers. "Bye."

Jim ignores her. "It was nice to meet you." To no avail.

This proves to be even more injurious to Molly, and she looks down again. Why? Because she thought he was talking to her, but he was just paying attention to me? Is that it? I will never understand feminine impulses.

As my own special form of punishment, I disregard him again. It takes John to say, "You too," and get the manipulative bastard out of the room.

Molly's forced smile breaks once her now-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's out of the room, and she takes a little shaky breath. For some reason, a warm feeling rises inside of me. _She can be herself around me_.

She takes a breath and acts like she wasn't affected by my brutally honest words. "What do you mean gay?" She almost laughs at the ludicrosity. "We're together!"

I sigh. _Yes, and John will finally find a girlfriend who is worth my time to remember. _Suddenly angry at her devotion to this scheming moron, I say (controlling my vexation as I always do), "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, you've gained three pounds since I last saw you."

Tone flat and dull, she tries, "Two and a half."

Not even. "Mmh . . . three."

I hear John clear his throat testily, indication that I've gone too far. "Sherlock . . ."

As if encouraged by John, all of Molly's rage suddenly bubbles up. "He's _not _gay. Why do you have to spoil . . ." I will be highly amused if she stamps her foot in frustration. As fond—if you can call it that—as I am of Molly, I will burst out laughing. "He's _not_."

I scoff. "Please. With that level of personal grooming?"

John intervenes. Was he trying to make it easier for Molly? It wasn't _bad_, was it? It wasn't serious with this Jim guy, right?

_Was _it?

"Because he puts a little product in my hair? _I _put product in my hair."

Again, I resist laughing. A _little _product in his hair? John goes through two bottles a week.

I shake my head, just for the sake of contradicting him. "You _wash _your hair. There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

Molly swallows. "His _underwear_?" _I know right, Molly. I can find fault in every tiny thing about everybody. Or . . . are you jealous because I've seen your boyfriend's underwear and you haven't?_

Or has she?

I rush into it, distracting myself with deductions. "Visible above the waistline—_very _visible, very particular brand."

Should I tell her about the phone number? Will it hurt her too much?

No. She needs to break it off, _now_.

"That, plus the _extremely _suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here . . ." I flash the card at Molly's very surprised—and rather hurt, I observe—face and give her a steely smile, one that says, _Now do you believe me?_

"I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly pauses, and I can see the minuscule movement of lower lips, and the subtle watering of her eyes. Oh. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. I didn't mean to do _that_.

What have I done?

She runs from the room, the door banging behind her with a loud sense of finality.

As I walk into the dark pool house, the olfactory sign of over-chlorinated water hits my nostrils unpleasantly. The water gurgles ominously, and I look around, wary and taking in everything, my shoes echoing loudly off the inhospitable walls.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," I say suddenly, trying to catch him off guard, thrusting the flash drive in the air and waving it around the room, wondering desperately where he might be. The fact that I haven't the faintest is both frustrating and thrilling, and my mind goes to that dangerous overdrive it visits every time I have a case.

"That's what it's all been for, isn't it," I continue, just to make noise, to draw him out of hiding, my eyes still scanning every inch of the room, "All your little puzzles, making me _dance_." I spit out the word, bitter that I was confined in his power just by the morals of wanting to save someone's life. "All to distract me from _this_."

Suddenly, the door opens, and—oh my God.

_John _steps out.

He looks the same. Jeans, nice haircut, oversize coat, steady eyes. But there's something different, there _has _to be.

My _best friend _is a criminal mastermind.

Of course, I always knew he didn't consider me _his _best friend. But I thought—I thought he was doing more than just using me.

I should've known. Who else would want to _talk _to me, much less live with me?

For the first time since I was very small, I feel a lump start to rise in my throat. How could I have believed _I_ could acquire a friend so quickly?

Maybe it's for the best. Emotions? Emotions, I have no idea how to handle. A battle of wits? That I can do.

My futile attempts to convince myself do no good.

"Evening." John stares at me lacklusterly, so different from the John Watson I thought I knew. I can't speak. I just can't.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John stands motionless, still talking in that same dull voice. And finally I can speak.

"_John_. What the hell . . ?" My tone tells him so much more than any words ever could, my fear and my sorrow and, most of all, the shocking and gut-wrenching feeling of being betrayed.

"Bet you never saw this coming." John doesn't look at all like before—so strange, so different, I can't stop a forlorn, hopeful thought from occurring.

Maybe . . . _just _maybe . . ?

John lets out a little breath, and opens his jacket. "What—would you like me—to make him say—next?"

Explosives. He's completely strapped with explosives, with a little, neat, seemingly-harmless red dot on his chest. Yes, of course. Relief swoops in to slow my descent into the darkness betrayal and loneliness. _I haven't been betrayed. I still have a friend. _

I'm shocked at how I was affected I was, thinking I was without John. I felt so alone, so betrayed, and it physically hurt. Do I . . . love him? Was John a stand-in for the brother I never got in Mycroft?

But he was still here. And he was going to die if I didn't do something.

I whip around, searching desperately for whoever was speaking through John, but not even spotting the source of the omnipresent little red dot.

"Gottle o'gear. Gottle o' gear. Gottle o'—"

"Stop it!" I blurt, screaming, unable to take it, hatred burning through me for he who controlled John's mouth.

John continues, just as monotonously. "Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John squeezes his eyes and takes a shaky breath, and terror clutches my heart as I anticipate his next words. "I can stop John Watson, too." John looks down at his chest, where a bullet may soon follow the little red dot. "Stop his heart."

_You just try_. "Who are you?!" I yell, furious at my hapless position, and even more angry because I know Moriarty knows of it.

A squeak of a door comes at the far end of the pool, and a high, nasally voice to accompany it: "I gave you my number." I whirl. _I know that voice. _"I thought you might call."

Jim. Molly's Jim. Molly's idiot, no-good, son-of-a-gun Jim. Ha! I _knew _getting rid of him was good for Molly!

_Focus_. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket," Moriarty continues smugly, walking towards me, the goofy grin from before gone, "Or are you just pleased to see me?"

I pull it out. "Both."

The gun aimed at his head doesn't seem to faze him. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

_This guy's a psychopath, _the instinctive, emotional, terrified side of my brain says.

_How do you know he's not a high functioning sociopath? _the ironic side answers bitterly.

"'Jim?'" Moriarty continues, impersonating me just to get my goat, "'Jim from the hospital?'" I steady my gun, not making a sound. Moriarty looks disappointed. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression?" Then he smiles, conceding to, "But then, I suppose, that _was _rather the point."

My eyes flick to the little red dot on John's chest, and, as if reading my thoughts (which _really _ticks me off, because I usually do that to other people) Moriarty gives what could pass as a snort. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle." He looks at my gun deprecatingly. "I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy _glimpse_ of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world." Moriarty shakes his head, somehow combining both "deathly amused" and "obscenely patronizing" into a single, distinctive look. "I'm a specialist, you see." He flashes me a cocky smile. "Like you."

My stomach tightens at being compared so closely to the madman.

Because, of course, I see now what he is. "Dear Jim," I say, comprehension and understanding shown through my voice, "please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Moriarty looks embarrassed, as if I were publicly complimenting him. "Just so," he says in a funny accent; then he giggles girlishly, as if he were exceedingly witty.

"Consulting criminal," I say, aghast and wildly impressed at the same time. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Moriarty smiles a deranged smile. I glance at John, and the look in his eyes reminds that he does not approve of our little games—not if his life is one of them.

"No one ever gets to me." Moriarty stares me down. "And no one ever will."

I cock my gun, still aimed at his head. I won't miss. I never miss. "I did."

"You've come the closest," he allows. "And now you're in my way." _Great. As if that song wasn't _already _stuck in my head. Maybe this is another one of his torture techniques. _

"Thank you," I say, feeling rather flattered.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

_Nice try_. "Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did," he relents, shrugging.

"But the flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!" Moriarty sings, still in that creepy, arrogant way of his. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little _problems_, even thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play." He glares at me, as if I should be more appreciative of his sacrifices. "So take this as a friendly warning . . . _my dear_." His eyes suddenly turn cold. "Back off." He looks at me coquettishly, admitting, "Although I have loved this. This little _game _of ours." _I know, it's so exciting. You kidnapping all those people, and manipulating Molly, and now John. _"Playing 'Jim from IT'. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

He doesn't get it. I didn't get it, before that fateful day where I met both the memorable pathologist and my bold flatmate, but being with John has helped me to realize _so _many things, not least of all the value of human life. "People have died."

He starts off singsongy, toying with me. "That's what people—" And suddenly his whole visage changes from a playful, foolish look to a sneering, red-hot one, and fire alights in his eyes. "—**_do!_**_" _

Moriarty's last word echoes around the pool.

I set my lips, determined. "I will stop you."

He shakes his head, as if I were being silly and juvenile. "No, you won't."

I can't stand it. I look to John, "Are you alright?"

John purses his lips, unable to answer me, and my blood boils. Moriarty creeps up behind him, putting his lips to John's ear and startling the hell out of him. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

Nope. Not now. John stares at me, rebellious, and I save him. "Take it." I thrust the drive at Moriarty.

He looks intrigued. "Hmm? Oh! That! The missile plans . . ." He grins at me coyly, steps forward to take it, kisses it, and promptly tosses it into the pool. "Boring! I could've got them anywhere."

And John springs into action, taking advantage of Moriarty's back to him and seizing his neck. "Run, Sherlock!"

I take a second the recover from my shock. _What does John think he's doing?! He realizes he's trying to sacrifice himself for me, right? Doesn't he know I won't even _consider _moving a step?_

Moriarty, rather than being dismayed, seems to be enjoying this, which doesn't improve my mood. He laughs, "Oh! Good, very good."

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both go down." I've never seen John like this, with that wild craze in his eyes—except perhaps when he shot the cabbie, in such similar situation as this—to save my life— in our first case together.

My heart thumps. We are at a standstill. Like the cabbie from what seems like so long ago said, this is chess, and it's Moriarty's move.

He takes his time at it. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around; but then people do get so sentimental about their pets."

John growls, rather like the dog Moriarty was referring to. I would pay good money to see a fight between him and Moriarty.

I thought we were on top. I thought we were going to win.

But then Moriarty made his move.

He continues, "They're so touchingly loyal. But _oops!"_

I can't see it, but by the astonished, terrified look in John's eye, I can tell there's a little red dot dancing on my forehead. I resist the urge to sigh as Moriarty, winning for the time being, sings, "Gotcha!"

John knows when he is beaten. He releases Moriarty and backs up with his hands raised, but I can tell he wanted to do far more.

Moriarty brushes off his clean, beautiful suit, looking at me with mock indignation. "Westwood!" He makes the same brushing motion, his eyes saying, _Amirite?_

I ignore him.

"Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?" Moriarty looks like he genuinely wants to know. I roll my eyes. "Oh, let me guess, I get killed." I think I put more sarcasm into those seven words than I've put into any other phrase I've uttered in my lifetime combined.

"Kill you?" Moriarty almost looks like he wants to laugh, but winces, like I just said something very stupid, and carries his expression into his tone. "Well, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonnakill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm just saving it up for something special." His voice indicates we were talking about returning borrowed books, not my life, and I marvel at how little other living, breathing humans being mean to him.

"No, no, no, no, no." His voice looses its jovial manner as he says, "If you don't stop prying . . . I'll burn you." He stares at me with those cold, dark eyes, flashing a warning that I daren't look any further, or I'll find hideous, gruesome things I don't want to see. "I'll burn . . . the _heart _out of you."

Images fly in front of my eyes, blinding me from everything else and suffocating me. Images of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft . . . Molly.

Why Molly?

A wave of sorrow, one I have been able to easily surf all my life, suddenly overwhelms me and I wipe out.

If anything happens to the few people I hold dear _purely because of me _. . . no.

For one can ever be truly alone.

"I have been reliably informed I don't have one," I say smoothly, realizing with a pang that what people think isn't at all close to the truth.

Moriarty gives me a knowing smile. "But we both know that's not quite true."

It's awfully sad to think that a psychotic criminal mastermind knows me better than my own friends do.

"Well," Moriarty looks around, all _Oh, goodness! Look at the time! I must be going. _"I'd better be off. It's _so_ nice that we've had a proper chat." He acts like this has been a causal get-together, making fun of the danger John and I are in, but underlying it all is a cruel mocking of our situation.

"What if I were to shoot you now, right now?" I ask, knowing the answer but unable to resist asking the question. Moriarty sighs, looking just like me when I have to deal with tedious, dull, boring, ordinary people annoying me. "Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face—" he imitates a dramatic look of shock—"'cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit . . . _disappointed_."

I am tempted to really shoot him, sick as I am of his clever little mind games, playing to the angle of which I am so ignorant—sentiment.

He smiles coyly. "And of course you would've be able to cherish it for very long." _It would _so _be worth it, you asshole_.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." I keep my gun trained on him as he walks towards the door. "Catch . . . you . . . later."

He's out the door before he answers in high singsong, "No you won't!"

The door creates a barrier between us and the lunatic with a conclusive thud.

I leap into operation. "Alright?" I demand of John, unstrapping the explosives as he lets out all his air and forces it back in again, "_Are you alright?"_

"I'm fine. Sherlock . . ." I don't stop there, wanting to be _done, finished, over _with this horrible ordeal, stimulating as it was. I rip off his coat, the hideous weapon of his potential destruction, and fling it across the room, needing it out of my sight.

I'll burn it later.

I hurry to check the doors and windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rifleman and knowing I won't, as John recovers, stumbling down to lean against the locker, the shock and post-adrenaline crash setting in. I have no use for such impotent hormones, so I try to ignore them, marching up and down the tile.

"Are you okay?" John asks me, and I'm surprised. _I wasn't the one who was kidnapped and strapped with explosives, okay?! _"Me? Yeah, fine, fine," I say shortly, scratching my head with my gun while trying to think of how to thank him.

I couldn't quite compose my words—I had never really expressed gratitude before, but such a noble act as John's for such an unsavory soul as I couldn't go unacknowledged.

"That, that thing you, uh, did—offered to do—that was, that was, um . . . good," I manage, gesturing with my gun, and at a better time, I know John would've rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm glad no one saw that," he groaned, and I peer at him. "Hmm?" What? Was he ashamed to have tried to save me? Was I really _that _undesirable?

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool—people might talk."

I grin at him, finally understanding. "People do little else."

He smiles back, and the relief that this situation is over is palpable. He tries to get up, but then—oh my God. The little red dot is back, and this time, he brought friends.

"Sorry, boys! I'm _sooooo _changeable!" I can hear how much Moriarty's enjoying this in his voice as he says, "It is a weakness of mine but, to be fair to myself, it is my _only _weakness.

"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty shakes his head, almost ruefully. "You just can't. I would try to convince you—" A laugh—"but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

There's only one solution. I have the gun. I look at John, and he gives me a little nod. I steel myself, and turn to face Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." I level my gun, and take perfect aim at his grinning face, wanting to pull the trigger so badly, but barely restraining myself. Slowly, meticulously, I lower the firearm to point at John's abandoned, explosive coat.

**Author's Note:**** Wow! My chapters just get longer and longer!**

**I know this cliffhanger is cruel, but at least I don't make you wait two years for the next one (MOFFATISS!)! Plus, you knew it would happen, so . . . . anyway . . . I'll post the next chapter soon. **

**I know this one was kind of boring because it was all canon, but the next one will be entirely original. Do you guys want more John+Sherlock brotp? Because I totally friend-ship them.**

**Review! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**** THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU the-art-of-escape, IceCat62, and InMollysWildestDreams for reviewing. **

**the-art-of-escape: Okay, thanks! Not this one so much, but I'll try to make the other chapters just as long (especially the next one).**

**InMolly'sWildestDreams: I'm glad. I've actually plotted out the entire story, so I'm excited to see your reactions. :)**

**IceCat62: No, no, no, I ****_totally _****agree. Have no fear.**

**To InMollysWildestDreams, Julie Monroe, gordon1776, livvi695, kay245, and SandraDK: You guys know how awesome you are. I'm sure I don't need to remind you, but I'll do it anyway. YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME! THANK YOU SO MUCH!**

**Thanks you for continued support from followers, favorite-ers, and reviewers! **

Chapter Five:

_Molly_

I tap my foot impatiently and wait for Jim to be done.

He's really pushing my patience to the limit these days. I check my phone, and groan aloud when I see the dull, oblivious numbers blink _6:02. _I glare at the grand white house he went into and wonder irritatedly what on earth he could be doing there.

I hear muffled voices and perk up, peering longingly at the door, and—_yes, _seeing Jim trot out onto the sidewalk. I stand up immediately and cross my arms, and he slows when he sees my face.

"Ah," he says, swallowing uncomfortably.

I raise my eyebrows at him, my expression firm and unyielding. "And just _what _were you doing in there that caused you to be thirty-_two _minutes late?"

He shifts uneasily. "Well . . ."

A small movement catches my eye, and I look up, _just _seeing the sly and smirking face at the window before it disappears from view. My irritability boils into rage. "Was that a _girl _in there?"

Jim shakes his head, trying to reassure me. "Molly—"

But I'm not hearing any of it. "JIM MORI—" I stop suddenly and smile awkwardly at the old gray-headed lady, who shoots me a disapproving look as she walks past. I take a deep breath and hail a cab. "Don't think you're off the hook," I hiss at my boyfriend, and he looks appropriately terrified, making me feel a little better.

I sit in stony silence the whole way to his flat, wary of the attentive cabbie whose ears are pricked for drama, but inside I'm seething.

How could Jim do this to me? How could he _cheat _on me after all I've done for him? I could tell I surprised him when I insisted on coming home with him, and I was equally shocked when _he _insisted on stopping by someone's house.

But I didn't think he would _cheat _on me. Not with me right there in the car.

I know that woman.

When we get into his flat, I storm in, using my key to unlock the door and letting Jim pay the cab driver. He hurries in after me, appealing, "Molly. Molly, let me explain—"

I whip around, an entire novel in fury written on my face. "No! No, I will _not _let you explain! I will _not _let you explain how you're _not _gay, or you're _not _cheating on me—with a freaking _girl,_ I might mention—"

"I'm _not _gay!" Jim protests, nearly matching my volume and ferocity, but he is in no way prepared for the wrath of Molly Hooper. I narrow my eyes, and something changes in his face, something I can't quite identify.

I open my mouth, but he steps in closer, cutting me off. "Molly Hooper, you of all people should know I'm not gay." He puts his arms around me, and I make attempts (however slowing) to push them off, but he's unrelenting. "No, no. _Molly_. I fooled him. I fooled Sherlock Holmes. I _knew _he was going to think I was gay. I dressed that way on purpose, to get one up on him, evaluate his skill-set."

I hesitate, taking in his steady, pleading eyes, and feel a rush of relief. I can tell when Jim is lying. I almost smile, but then a dark reminder drags me down to cold, unpitying reality, and I shake off his grip. "What about the girl, huh? What about _her_?"

He shakes his head, smiling like I don't understand and was simply being silly—which didn't help my mood. "Molls, please—"

I wasn't hearing any of it. "No!" I slap his pleading arm away, and he looks down at the red mark adhering it, shocked. "Don't try to write it off as _an old friend _or _a business meeting_, because I know who that woman is!" My throat is starting to hurt. A lot. Carry on like this, and I won't have any voice left to "charm" Sherlock with.

Sherlock. I'll deal with him later.

Jim looks jarred. "_You _know who _Irene Adler _is?"

I purse my lips, a dark sarcastic questioning on my face. "Yeah. _Yeah_. Are you surprised? Huh?" I clench my fists and bite my tongue to keep from screaming. "Surprised that I, _safe _Molly Hooper, _clean _Molly Hooper, would know who that—that _thing _is?" I spat out the word, bitter with a longtime hatred, but I can feel my energy failing me. Jim can feel it, too, and he takes a step closer, comforting me, and I haven't the strength to fight him. "Molly, darling, I'm sorry. I didn't know you knew her—I never thought you'd know her. She's far too wretched for you to associate with." I look into his eyes, biting my lip—hard—to keep the tears from spilling over, making rivers in the great mess more commonly known as my face. He puts his arms around me. "Darling, you _must _believe me. It _was _a business deal. She has something—well, what I mean to say is . . ." He sighs. "I think she can assist in the Sherlock case."

I whip my head up. "What?" I straighten, rejuvenated. I can even feel some of that God-awful fury coming back. I stare at my uncomfortable boyfriend, utterly insulted. "So you're saying I'm not doing a good enough job?"

He shakes his head hastily. _Too _hastily. "No, no, no, Molly—"

I let out an exasperated breath. "I mean, I know I haven't gotten far, but for God's sake, give me some time! _When were you going to tell me about this?!_"  
His eyes are pleading. "Molly . . ."

I take a deep breath and try to get control of my emotions. "Okay. Alright. You know what?" I suddenly find new motivation in this case, motivation I never knew I had. "I'll crack this case. I'll crack Sherlock Holmes. There's got to be a chink in his armor somewhere, and I'll find it. I'll—I'll _beat _her." I turn furiously to go, then, remembering, turn back with exaggerated politeness. "Oh, and if there's anything else I'm in the dark about, you better fess up now." My tone is slightly jocular, but my face sure as hell is not.

He hesitates, and it's like ice shards crystalize my veins. "What?!" I demand, staring at him.

Jim takes a long breath, as if preparing himself because he knows I'm going to explode, and my skin stands on end with unpleasant anticipation. "Molly . . . I saw Sherlock last night."  
Wow. That wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I relax, and even walk forward to ask eager questions, revived by case-talk, before pausing, an unpleasant thought occurring. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

"No! No," Jim says, almost laughing, obviously relieved at my current tranquility, and his eyebrows furrow at my mildly disappointed look. "What, did you _want _me to?"

I sigh. "No, but . . . I've already called dibs on his autopsy. All the guys at the hospital want a chance to cut him up. And in case he outlives me, there's a waiting list."

Jim laughs, but then his expression turns serious. "Molls," he says gently, caressing my face, and I look into his eyes. "You know I would _never _do that, right?"

I mirror his kind smile, the anger from a moment before whisked away in the breeze. "I know, Jim. You're not at all like Sherlock Holmes. You would never harm anyone; he _purposefully _harms _everyone_. You would never kill; he's an unconvicted mass murderer. You're a much better person than he could ever dream of being." I slowly draw him in for a kiss, a long, deep one, and convince myself my words are true.

**Author's Note:**** The way I see it, Jim and Moriarty are two different people. Jim is the kind, clever boyfriend and Moriarty is the evil, scheming mastermind. And in a way they are, because Moriarty is just putting on an act for Molly.**

**So if they seem different and a little OOC with each other, that's why; I wrote it on purpose that way.**

**Okay! Next chapter—soon! Promise! There will be a ****_lot _****more Irene Adler, and Molly's connection to her. There will be a ****_lot _****of interesting conflict centered around her! :)**

**Comments? Questions? Suggestions? Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**** Hey guys! If you're reading this (my sixth chapter!) I love you. I really, really do. **

**I cannot even ****_express_**** my thanks to atticus126, SandraDK, IceCat62, superwholockedthemarvelavatar, PixieMolly, and Denethorian Grey for being obscenely awesome and reviewing, following, or favoriting my story.**

**SandraDK: HAHAHA, too funny :)**

**IceCat62: Thanks! It's my headcanon—I totally believe that ****_everyone _****at Barts hates him so much they want to kill him themselves, not just cut him up afterwards :)**

**Denethorian Grey: I am a firm believer in a straight John Watson (um . . . hello? He's ****_married!_****), but your comment made me laugh out loud :)**

**PixieMolly: Thank you ****_so much. _****The dollar/pound thing didn't even ****_occur _****to me, and as I have never been to England I never would've known about the medical-bill thing. I'll update those chapters ASAP. THANK YOU SO MUCH! GOLD STAR FOR PIXIEMOLLY!**

**And even ****_more _****thanks to Yessy1717 for following me and my story, and favoriting me. YOU ARE A FANTABULOUS HUMAN BEING!**

**And to my other followers, favorite-ers, and reviewers I haven't mentioned—I haven't forgotten you! I still love you! :D**

**Post-Script: SO SO SO sorry about how long it took to update. Crazy busy!**

Chapter Six

_Sherlock _

There was something about her, something in her gaze or her movements I couldn't identify—maybe that was it. Maybe I was obsessing over the fact that I couldn't identify her.

Obsessing? _Me? _No. Surely not. No, _definitely _not.

I was simply . . . observing. Over and over and over again.

I resist the urge to shake my head to clear it and peer more carefully at her, searching for something, _anything _that would give me an _ounce _of control, just one little deduction that would let me know her better than she knows herself.

There was nothing.

She gives me a sly smile, and I try to ignore it and go for her hair. _Dark. Perfectly styled in a crown braid on top her head. Beautiful. NO!_

She smiles coyly at me. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

I stare back at her. "Miss Adler, I presume."

She looks me over, which makes me uncomfortable. I was supposed to be doing that to _her_. "Oh, look at those cheekbones," the dominatrix gushes, in her own unique way, "I could cut myself slapping those." She gives a sly smile. "Would you like me to try?" Irene Adler narrows her eyes, enjoying my discomfort, and bites the piece of paper acting as my collar.

Oh, my.

"Right, this should do it—" John stops short as he sees Irene and her extensive lack of clothes, and I swallow. _Why did you choose _this _particular second to come in, John? _Why?

But the look on John's face is priceless, making it worth it. I can hear him mutter, "Oh, God," and then he studies me. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

_Um, yeah. _

Irene Adler's expression advances on John, her face saying, _Ooh, a new victim. How exciting. _She takes the paper out of her mouth, relenting as she realizes this isn't the time to take liberties with John—_thank God_. "Please," she says, "sit down. Or if you'd like some tea I could call the maid."

The maid. Poor girl. Irene obviously treats her like less than the dirt on her shoes.

I shake my head. "I had some at the palace." It shocks me to learn that my tone was slightly—_boastful_.

A smile flirts on her lips. "I know."

_You're trying to win, get me off guard. Stop it. It's not going to work. _"Clearly," I say, not missing a beat.

She's sitting down now, her arms covering up at least a little bit, and I can't decide whether that makes me feel more or less comfortable. Deciding on the former, I stare her down, the dominatrix accepting the challenge with gaze of her own. battle

John clears his throat, misinterpreting the epic duel between the two of us as an awkward silence. "I had some tea, too, at the palace. If anyone's interested." _No. _No _one is, John._

I return my attention to Irene, whose has a superior smile. I squint at her, wondering irritably why the deductions haven't started flowing through me, as they always do—sometimes even with my consent. I glance at John to make sure they're still working, and immediately words bubble up to the surface. _Two-day shirt. Electric not blade shave. Fancy-ish shoes—date tonight. _

Now John's looking at me weird. I know I shouldn't stare, but the relief of still being able to make _some _inferences is overwhelming. _Scrunched, nervous eyebrows—hasn't phoned sister—uncomfortable, saggy lips—new toothbrush—bags under eyes says night out with Stamford—couldn't be a date because he has one tonight. _

Slowly, laboriously, I return my gaze to the evasive dominatrix, still with the all-knowing smile dancing on her lips.

Nothing.

I bite my tongue to keep from screaming, and glance at John again, who's staring at the pair of us like he's never seen a naked woman flirting with a dark-suited man.

Well. I suppose the situation is a _little _different, being as I am one of the participants, but still. I look away, wishing he wouldn't goggle like that.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" Irene Adler breaks my introspection, and I am acutely aware of the battle raging between us.

I incline my head, appearing politely and vaguely interestedly, but not giving in the way verbally asking would. Don't want to grant her too much power. Nevertheless, she forages on, letting some of the clever smile fixed on her face seep into her words. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

Whoa, whoa, _whoa! _Was she saying that, deep down inside, I was a hurt little whiner looking at her for help?!

Oh, no. She better not be saying that.

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?" I ask, straight-faced but with a little curious incredulity, determined not to show any sign of yielding.

She looks at me in that patronizing, curious way. "I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself." She dares me to deny it.

_Oh, close, very close, Ms. Adler. But not quite. I know I'm not the "higher power", at least not in the way you speak of. Intelligence-wise—definitely. But, as I have come to realize in passing months—not everything is just intellectually-based._

I say nothing, just peer detachedly at her.

She leans forward, intent on getting her point—whatever that may be—across. "But somebody loves you," she observes, knowing full well who it is, even granting him a glance. John looks confused, and I see it written all over his face: _Someone loving Sherlock Holmes . . . who could that be?_ "If I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."

Yes! There it is! Ding, ding, ding, there's a winner in Sherlock Holmes! _Dear me, Miss Adler. Are you saying _you_ love me, too?_

John doesn't pick up on this. I wonder if Irene even did—if so, she doesn't show it. John just laughs humorlessly, cutting it short to say, "Can you put something on, please? Anything at all, er . . ." He looks around, "A napkin?"

_Oh, John. Don't tell me you're not enjoying this. Or, I forget—do you currently have a girlfriend?_

"Why?" Irene asks, like she really wants to know. "Are you feeling exposed?"

Well, at least she's acknowledging John's existence now. I really hate it when my arrogant adversaries do that—act like he doesn't matter, like he's invisible, just because he's "ordinary". But, of course, _I_ can treat him like that whenever I want, because I know it's wrong. My logic, as always, is impeccable.

I stand up, getting my coat and saving John—sort of. "I don't think John knows where to look."

"No, I think he knows exactly where." Irene approaches John, and he fights sedulously to keep his eyes steadily meeting hers. _A valiant effort. He can gape lower when she's not looking. _She holds out her hand for my coat, which she _of course _knows I'm going to give her. In our own little way, both Irene and I do our best to protect John Watson. It gives me a warm, triumphant feeling to know that we have that, at least, in common.

"Not sure about you," Irene continues, taking my coat. I feel slightly insulted. Sex has never interested me, nor, I insist, will it ever.

To show that I wasn't deterred—though of course I was—I returned, "If I wanted to look at naked women, I would borrow John's laptop." I don't know why I'm doing this, why I'm insulting John, making it seem like he has porn sites bookmarked. It's cruel, really—almost sadistic—but it makes me feel a little better. There will always be John to understand and forgive. Always.

But right now he's glaring. "You do borrow my laptop."

Uh oh. A serious mistake. A general shot down in battle. A traitor waltzing over to the enemy just because the enemy is coming on to him. _Does Irene think that I _do _look at porn sites?_

Rationality tells me I can't really blame John—I had treated him badly—and in this scary war of emotions and impulses, I have to trust rationality. I decide to forgive and forget.

"I confiscate it," I correct John, walking seemingly aimlessly around the room.

"Oh, never mind," Irene says, wrapping up her nakedness in my coat. "We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me, I need to know." She sits down casually, fiddling with her shoes. "How was it done?"

"What?"

"The hiker, with the bashed-in head, how was he killed?" She seems genuinely interested, like we were meeting up for tea.

I'm caught off guard by a topic so remote. John looks at me, annoyed at my solving of the case "below me" and not telling him, and I resist spluttering. "That's not why I'm here."

"No, no, no, you're here for the photographs." She sees my surprise, and chases it down, deepening it. "But that's never going to happen, so since we're here just chatting anyway . . ."

"That's story's not been on the news yet, how did you know about it," John interjects, looking at me like, _Wow, she's good._

_God, John, you're so slow._

"I know one of the policemen," she answers. "Well," she amends, "I know what he likes."

"Oh," John says, and I can see a reaction not displayed on his face. _What does he like? _He sits down, flirting now, and I almost can't stand the level of dullness he's descended to. "And you . . . like . . . policemen?"

_Try as you might, John, you are not a policeman. You are the partner of a consulting detective, and an ex-military doctor. _Not _a policeman, though if you wish to make that stretch, I suppose someone as sex-ready as Irene Adler wouldn't mind too much. _

"I like detective stories. _And _detectives," she encourages coyly. _Okay. You might be able to make _that _stretch._

It suddenly occurred to me that _I _was a detective.

"Brainy's the new sexy," Irene continues, and John's left lip tugs into a coquettish smirk.

Suddenly my brain catches up with my observations and I register what she just said.

_Oh. Oh, my . . ._

Some sort of unintelligible gibberish comes out of my mouth as I desperately force her attention back on me, and I manage to stop the blush before it comes.

John's face—I wish I had a camera.

"The position of the car," I correct hastily, feeling a strange need to prove that I did, in fact, solve the case, "relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire, that and the blow was to the back of the head, that's all you need to know." I've regained control of the room now—deductions, I'm comfortable with that.

But Irene Adler wasn't going down without a fight. "Okay, tell me. How was he murdered?" She said "murdered" like it was an exciting game, a curious one, a thrilling one.

I look at her, holding all the cards now. "He wasn't."

There we go. Here we are. I can patronize and withhold information and dangle bits and pieces in front of their incompetent brains—however skilled Miss Adler was in the emotional arena, it was a big mistake to direct the topic over to the intellectual one.

She raises her eyebrows, intrigued. "You don't think it was murder?"

I say just as mysteriously, "I know it wasn't."

Irene narrows her eyes. "How?"

"The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel, and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room." Ha! There! Now _I've _caught _her _off guard. I'm right where I want to be, where I need to be.

Her face—terror, impression, and curiosity mixed together in a cocktail of surprise. "Okay, but how?"

If only she knew what she had just given up. "So they are in this room. _Thank _you." Elation at being out of the awkward, horrifying minefield of sex and emotions floods me, but I hide it well. "John. Man the door. Let no one in."

_Blur . . . confusion . . . lights, people, laughter . . . hazy faces . . . John; uncertain and concerned, Lestrade; amused and triumphant, Molly; wide-eyed and nervous—and her. The Woman. Back on top again, domineering, cackling, seductive, "I'm just returning your coat . . ."_

I enter the lab and sit down with a sigh. Molly Hooper looks at me and takes a breath, surprised and excited that I'm here. "Oh. Hello. Why are you here?" She's biting her lip, uncertain.

"Microscope," I answer shortly, and she nods, looking very slightly disappointed. _You shouldn't have expected anything else! _

Molly allows the silence to continue for a minute, then says, "What are you—I mean, are you—um, doing anything for Christmas?" She's unsure. Insecure. _Why?_

I nearly roll my eyes. "John's throwing some sort of Christmas—party—thing." I flutter my hands to enunciate its foolishness.

Molly looks awkward. "Oh. Um. Do you . . . do you, uh, know who's going?"

I look up from the microscope and squint at her. "How should I know?"

For half a second, something changes in her eye—then it's gone, so quickly I would think that I had imagined it, if I had an imagination. "I don't know . . . look in your mind palace, I don't know."

I sigh, but decide to humor her. Closing my eyes, I step into the palace and journey past the Family room, past the Cases files, and—ah. The John room. I step inside and immediately words form themselves in front of me. _Girlfriend . . . sister . . . party. _I select that file and scan the Guest List. The names fly by me so quickly I have to blurt them: "Jeanette Gremily, Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson, Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, Will Grayson."

I open my eyes and Molly is still there, her face more relaxed. "Oh. Well, then. Anything else? Any family stuff?"

My mood turns sour. "We don't _do _"family stuff"," I spit bitterly, turning back to my microscope.

Molly looks sorry. I can tell. But still she persists. "So you'll just stay with John?"

This time, I bite my lip, and she sees it, unfortunately being encouraged by my show of emotion. "What? What is it?"

I consider not answering, but she'd probably just ask again. I swallow. "John's going off to his sister's. He thinks she's sobered, or some ridiculous foolishness like that." It kind of hurts, that John would rather see his sister than me on some random day that's supposed to be important. _She _hasn't been there for him this past year. _She _hasn't laughed with him, and cried with him, and almost died with him.

It wasn't fair.

"Sherlock." Molly's voice, soft and gentle, lures my eyes out from the microscope. Her face is understanding, all the nervousness from before vanished. "John hasn't seen his sister in years. They grew up together, and they're just trying to renew the bond they had as children." She puts a comforting hand on my shoulder, then yanks it back as if realizing who she was talking to. I stare at the place her warm fingers touched, still tingling from the stroke, and try to remember the last time I had been touched by a woman.

Molly swallows. "Don't feel insulted, Sherlock—"

I scoff. "I'm not insul—"

Shaking her head, Molly cuts me off. "Don't pretend. Sherlock, you're John's _best friend. _But you live with him. He sees you everyday. But Harry is his sister, who he doesn't live with, who he hasn't seen in years. You can't be the center of John's life all the time."

I sit in stunned silence for a couple of moments, trying to absorb her words. Finally, I give the only response I can muster—"I'm not John's best friend. Mike Stamford is."

There's a trod on the doorstep, and I look past John's idiot "girlfriend" to see a severely-beautified Molly Hooper.

Her hair is thrown back down her back, and is let to fall loose on her shoulders. It's curled to perfection, as if she had spent hours on it. She is wearing big sparkly hoop earrings and a big black coat, and her face is perfectly clear of all blemishes. Her lipstick is eerily the same color as Irene's, which doesn't help my mood. It pains me to categorize Molly with The Woman.

"Oh, dear Lord," I mutter. Of course _Molly Hooper would be here, wearing that. _

"Hello, everyone," Molly pronounces cheerfully, carrying two big bags of presents. "It said on the door just to come up . . ."

Everyone greets her far too energetically, and I long for the peaceful moments of before, when it was just me, my violin, and my audience.

"Everyone's saying hello to each other, how wonderful!" I proclaim sarcastically, but everyone ignores me (which only darkens my mood).

Molly's watching me, and I her out of the corner of my eye. She takes off her coat and—

"Holy Mary!" John exclaims, his eyes wide with appreciation.

Molly's black dress is—probably beautiful, but I honestly can't say for certain—but it's tight and it plays to her figure very nicely. Lestrade's face in particular is very amusing as he really seems to notice the pretty pathologist for the first time. Molly looks pleased at the boys' reaction (which is more than I can say for John's girlfriend), but keeps checking with me for a response, which I blatantly refuse to give.

Did she wear this dress partially for me?

"So we're having our Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly asks in a shy, eager way, and I groan, "There's no stopping them, apparently." I'm feeling particularly moody this night; perhaps all the joy is affecting me.

Mrs. Hudson, very tipsy, tells Molly, "It's the one night of the year the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it," which actually kind of hurt. _John's always nice to you, and I am, too, compared to some others._

Molly's looking at me again, but I keep my attention fixed on the computer. John slides into her vision, competing for her attention, and is about to say something. I have to stop it. "John," I call, "the counter on your blog, it still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Oh, no, Christmas is cancelled!" John whines dramatically. _If only it were so. _

I can hear Lestrade getting up the courage to ask Molly, "Want a drink?" and her affirmative reply, and make myself focus, chuckling internally at the detective's antics.

"You've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" I complain, pointing to the blog, and John replies calmly, "People like the hat."

"No, they don't," I say automatically. "What people?" Who cares about me? Why would they possibly? There are _so _many other things they could do.

"How's the hip?" I hear Molly ask Mrs. Hudson, and her reply: "Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking."

"I've seen much worse," Molly says, a comfortable joviality in her voice, "But then I do post-mortems." She smiles like this is supposed to be funny, and I suppress a sigh.

She suddenly realizes how totally _not _funny it is and quickly tries, "Oh, God, sorry."

The silence is awkward, and it's hard to deduce my feelings. Do I feel condescending? Or . . . sympathetic?

Whatever. Whenever in doubt, just act the default—rude. "Don't make jokes, Molly," I order her, and she backs down. _So submissive. _Why _is she so submissive? She has flashes of defiance, and then—what? Why—aarg!_

It's too much work to deduce feelings, especially inconsistent ones.

Lestrade hands an embarrassed Molly some wine, which she gratefully takes. "Thank you. I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas."

_Ugh, small talk. The worst. I _must _find some way to end it._

"That's first thing in the morning, me and my wife," Lestrade answers, doing a wonderful job at keeping his eyes above her chest area. He looks genuinely happy. "We're back together, it's all sorted."

_Please. With the way you were looking at Molly just now? Not for long._

But I couldn't let Molly know how he was looking when her back was turned. She might get interested in him, and _that _would be a disaster.

You know, because of Lestrade's wife. The wife. The wife would be the disaster-causing thing.

Besides, Lestrade looked too happy.

"No, she's sleeping with the P.E. teacher," I say, not even shifting my gaze from John's laptop.

John looks down. He's obviously disappointed in me, but it's his own fault. What could he expect, us hosting this little Christmas "celebration"?

I sneak a glance at Lestrade, and feel a little dip in my mood. There was pain, deep in his eyes, and he looked away.

Molly, desperately avoiding an awkward pause like the first, turns to John. "And, John, I hear you're off to your sister's. Is that right?" John nods, that infuriating smile on his face.

"Sherlock was complaining," Molly said, and I shoot her a glance, angry. Really angry, actually. _Seriously? You would use my moment of weakness to exploit your moment of strength? Seriously?_

Seeing, the look on my face, Molly quickly amends to, " . . . saying," but the damage has been done. _Two can play at that game, Molly Hooper._

I give her a quick once-over, and . . . ah. I see. I try to decide if this worked in my advantage or against it.

John's talking: "First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze!" He raises his own booze in a celebratory toast.

"Nope!" I input, annoyed by all the Christmas cheer.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John demands, scowling at me, but he'll survive. He's used to it.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," I say, turning away from John's computer and to my prey.

She looks confused. "What? Sorry, what?"

_Don't pretend. _"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift!" I'm smiling, trying to show her that I know it won't last, that I'm not concerned about this at all.

"Take a day off," John mutters, seriously displeased with me, but I know it won't last. It never has before.

It sort of bothered me, a little, that Molly once again had a boyfriend who was just trying to use her and would take advantage of her.

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade told me, obviously trying to shift my attention away from Molly.

_Oh my gosh. For once, _for once, _can you lot not be so utterly _slow_?_

"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag." I ignore Lestrade, the blood pumping through my veins in a frenzy. Huh. This Christmas was turning out to be not so dull after all.

Molly gives a little scoff, her timid little way of defending herself, but I ignore her discomfort, needing this, needing to take this out on Molly, needing to show dominance over another creature after Irene Adler. "Perfectly wrapped with a bow, all the others are slapdash at best." I stand up, walking over to her, and Molly looks down at the bag as if suddenly realizing how ridiculously obvious her favoritism was. There was something wrong with her expression. She looks—frightened.

Whatever. That doesn't matter.

I continue, ignoring the look on her face, and give her a coy smile. "Someone special, then." _Yes, someone "special". Someone who will date you just long enough to get you knocked up, and then dump you, just for the sake of breaking your heart. Or . . . you don't _really _like him, do you? _No . . . _You're just using _him _to hold him over my head, like you tried to do with "Jim from IT". Well, good luck missy, 'cause I'm not biting. _

I pluck The Present from her bag and examine it, determined to find out what it is. "Shade of red echoes the lipstick, either an unconscious decision or one she's _deliberately _trying to encourage." Oh, I hope she did it purposefully, it's so clever. Women and their witty ways at love. I bet she did—she's smart. " . . . either way, Miss Hooper has _looove _on her mind." I'm having fun. This is the best Christmas I've had in years.

Molly looks around at my audience, obviously embarrassed, and I'm almost tempted to stop, but something drives me on. Maybe it's that I need to prove I can get past a woman's "charms", to prove that Irene Adler didn't have an effect on me. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all." Why does John's face look so . . . so . . . what's that? What?

But I'm too far in to stop now. "That would suggest long term hopes, however forlorn, and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing . . ." _Sorry, Lestrade. Not for your private viewing party. Aren't you married? _I start to open the tag, ready for the climax of my performance. " . . . obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts . . ."

**_Dearest Sherlock Love Molly xxx _**

Oh, God.

But when I looked up and saw Molly's face—when I saw Molly's face—I saw none of the anger visible when I had berated Jim, none of the strong impertinence all too obvious when I disregarded her, just . . . pain. A deep, serious pain. A scary pain to see on Molly Hooper's face.

I had broken her.

I trembled inside, and something exploded deep within me, an unseen monster screaming for a balm and demanding I end this agony.

But not Molly's agony—my own.

I was aching, aching for Molly Hooper, aching because Molly was aching, aching because I had caused her ache. It took me by surprise and quickly seized control over all rational thought. I quivered with self-loathing and an unfathomably strong desire to go back in time and erase my sadistic ridiculing.

My vision tunneled and all I could see is Molly, determined Molly who tried so hard, under-appreciated Molly who clutched a shaky wine glass, Molly who was looking at me with a shattered expression, that of one who has been pushed too many times and has finally fallen over.

I had depended on Molly, in a way, as someone to unload my troubles on. But, of course, my way of unloading troubles was to distract my mind, and my way of distracting my mind was to make cruel, demeaning deductions about some poor soul and announce them publicly and humiliatingly.

And now that was gone, I could see that now. I could never again hurt Molly Hooper the way I had hurt her today, never again use her to rid me of my pain, or my boredom, never again mock or scorn her for no reason at all, just because she was weaker than me.

Why had I thought that was okay? Why had I thought she would always be there, that she would be the one person that would stick by me to the end, even when everyone else was gone? Why had I trusted her so?

She was in love with me. She had to be. I know that now, and in a sense I've always known it. She was the one constant I could depend on, because she had no choice—love prevented her from leaving, and she was simply unfortunate to have fallen for the most despicable dickhead in the world.

But now I know one could fall out of love just as easily as in it. I study her cracked face, desperately seeking that look, deep in her eyes that said, _I'm really, really freaking mad at you. But I still love you, you dork. _I search wretchedly, wanting to scream, _No! Not yet! Don't you see—I still need you!_

But it's too late. It's already gone.

"You always say such horrible things." The look on Molly's face is devastating. She's almost laughing now, laughing at herself, laughing at what a fool she was to possibly have loved this man. "Every time . . . always, _always _. . ." I can see it in her eyes now, the realization, the bitter wonderment. She's looking around, at Lestrade, at Mrs. Hudson, at John, as if she were realizing that they already knew, had already realized the unpleasant truth about the man standing before them.

_What do I do, what do I do, what do I do, _the words hum in my ears, and for once I'm utterly helpless. I make to turn away then stop myself, realizing the only thing I could do, futile and minuscule as it is. Looking deep into those hurt brown eyes, I say, "I am sorry." My words, so often flat and phlegmatic, are still in their classic monotone, but underneath the dull covering there's a rueful effort to try to make things right, and mend our struggling relationship. "Forgive me."

I have never, _ever _said I was sorry or asked for forgiveness.

But Molly is different.

John looked up in astonishment as the words left my mouth, staring at me in bewilderment, then Molly, then back to me, as if he couldn't believe his ears. _What? I'm just taking your advice . . . remember that, way back when I first met Molly? It seems like so long ago . . . I was idiotic, _so _idiotic . . . I didn't know what I had just shaken hands with._

Molly seems stunned—granted, she has every right to be. Staring at that curved, heavily-painted face, I can't help but walk quietly forward, all too aware of the room's eyes on me, and gently press a kiss to that soft, dry cheek. I feel her stiffen, and desolately beg, _No! No! Come back! I need someone to love me! _

But it's no use. And as I kiss Molly Hooper's cheek for those few, pitiful half-seconds, I mourn for the loss of the only person on earth capable of loving a man like me.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

"The only one that fitted the description," Mycroft says as we walk into the morgue. "Had her brought here, your home away from home." His tone is teasing, and I'm vaguely insulted. _He obviously know how much time I spend here, looking into the microscope and humoring Molly. Is he mocking me? Mocking me because of Molly?_

Whatever. I never let anything Mycroft said affect me before, and I don't see why I should start now.

Molly's here. _Why is she here? Has she nowhere else to go, on Christmas? _"You didn't need to come in, Molly," I say, looking at her, feeling bad.

"That's okay," she replies bravely, "everyone else was busy with . . ." She takes a shaky breath, this being obviously hard for her. " . . . Christmas."

Christmas . . . the silly euphemism that is only used to make some

people feel happy and included and to make others go into work

because they've nowhere else to be.

Hurriedly, she continues, "The face is a bit sort of . . . bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult." _If you think either Mycroft or I have any trouble with looking at gore, Molly, you're quite mistaken._

She removes the sheet and reveals the hideous mess beneath, which I stare coldly at. Molly even looks a little embarrassed, like she didn't want to show us something this horrible on Christmas. _That may be true for others, Molly, for others with sentiment, but not for us Holmes boys._

"That's her, isn't it?" Mycroft asks in that unimpressed, blank way of his.

It was impossible to tell. While John might shy away from studying a naked woman's vaginal area, I observe every part of every thing, so long as the woman in question is so good enough to show it. "Show me the rest of her."

Molly's definitely embarrassed now, but she obliges with flustered smile on her face. I scan the body indifferently, and feel a little something fall as I realize the measurements are identical. "That's her," I say, and take note of their shocked faces as I stride out of the room.

I pause right before the doorway, however, when I hear Molly and Mycroft talking. "Thank you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft tells her as he turns to go, and I can hearthe surprise lingering in his voice. Molly stops him. "Who is she?"

Molly sounds . . . sad, sadder even than before. I realize I'm not exactly making her Christmas, and I feel rueful. "How did Sherlock recognize her from . . ." Molly pauses, and I can _hear _her biting her lip. " . . . not her face?"

Poor Molly. After all she's ever done to "get" me, she thinks that this woman managed to sleep with me, which probably sparks some imbecilic insecurities about not being "good" enough. Don't worry, Molly. That could never happen.

Mycroft swallows uneasily. He has never has been good with matters relating to sex and women. I peek around the corner and see him give one final gaze to Irene Adler, as if wondering the same thing as Molly, then smile awkwardly at the pathologist and leave her. I quickly walk into the corridor as Mycroft follows me, unaware of my eavesdropping.

He comes up behind me, and shoves a cigarette in front of my face. I stare questionably at it. "Just the one," he says, and I wonder why he's being so nice to me. _Does he think I'm unable to handle Irene's death?_

"Why?"

He shrugs, offering any explanation. "Merry Christmas."

And after everything that happened with Molly today, and Irene being dead, I take it.

He pulls out his lighter. "Smoking indoors, isn't there one of those . . ." I trail off, searching for the right word. " . . . one of those law things?" _As if Mycroft or myself would be persecuted. But Mycroft usually follows laws. After all, he makes them._

Mycroft sparks a light, and I dip my cigarette into the flame, breathing in the smoke and the sweet, sweet nicotine.

"We're in a morgue. There's only so much damage you can do," Mycroft answers, and I think back to what Molly said, about John and his sister. If I hadn't seen Mycroft for years, would I choose to see him again, on a day special to me?

I blow the smoke out, envisioning hobbits and smoke rings as I did as a child. I nearly miss Mycroft's next words in my juvenile fantasy. "How did you know she was dead?"

"She had an item in her possession," I say lifelessly, "One she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." I take another breath of the cigarette.

Mycroft persists, as if dealing with an uncooperative child. "Where is this item now?"

He knows where.

I gaze down the corridor and notice a family weeping through the door, hugging themselves and crying like the world was ending. "Look at them," I say, half berating, half envious. "They all _care _so much." I spit the word "care" like it was a vile thing.

"Do you ever wondered if there's something wrong with us?" I ask Mycroft, knowing the answer. I have, often, as I see John laugh with his parents on the phone or cry when his girlfriend beaks it off. It almost hurts to be excluded, to be forever shut out of the mysterious world of loving.

At least I have Mycroft out here.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

But isn't it, though?

He stares at me, as if trying to remind me of this fact. I try to make a little half-scoff, but all I end up doing it blowing out smoke. I scowl at cigarette, feeling as if Mycroft had tricked me. "This is low tar."

"Well," Mycroft says, the closest he gets to jovail, "You barely knew her."

Ouch.

But funny nonetheless.

I chuckle, walking away from my brother, the only one who understands, and not even very well. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

His voice follows me. "And a happy New Year."

When I get a far enough distance away, I stop and gaze back after Mycroft—on his mobile, as usual—and think about his words. I exhale a curtain of smoke, and it surrounds me like a fog of calm.

The sound of sharp, angry heels clinking menacingly against cold tile dispels my calm-fog, and I turn to see who has so rudely interrupted my tranquility. I immediately wish I hadn't.

It was a strange occurrence, to be seeing Molly when I didn't need her—therefore, it was not necessary to be sweet to her—or when I couldn't be mean to her—she was already mad at me, and I couldn't make her more mad because, _because_ . . . uh, I might need her in the future. Right. That was it. I didn't quite know how to act—not overly nice, not standoffish—so I said nothing, but continued to smoke, contemplating, hoping she'd go away.

But she kept coming, advancing on me like a tank, looking ridiculously huge and overpowering for someone of that petite size. Her face was hard with determination as she stopped in front of me and took a deep breath.

I expected yelling, but this was much worse. The utter devastation in her voice was heartbreaking.

"What gives you the right," she says thickly, "to humiliate me like that? Why are you special? Why do the rest of us have to be kind and humble, but you get to be an arrogant ass anytime you feel like it?"

I gaze at her, at those sparkling chocolate eyes, staring at me shattered with bitterness, and feel an unidentifiable emotion surge through me, hitting me hard and staggering me.

I say nothing, just stare at her, and she shakes her head, a knowing, acid smile rising to her lips. "Of course. _Of course. _I should've known, I _should've known _. . ." She takes a deep breath, and still I say nothing. "You don't care about anyone but yourself, not even John." Her voice breaks, and I can see by the faraway look in her eyes that she's remembering a better time. "I thought you were a hero. I was _so _. . . proud. You were out there, every second of every day, solving crimes, but I thought it was to help people, at least in part, not just a way to flatter yourself. I convinced myself that you were good, underneath it all." A tear falls, and she shakes her head regretfully. "How stupid I was. You used me, and used me, and used me again. But you're right. _You're right._" She purses her lips, laughing at herself, and I'm shocked. "My hopes _are_ forlorn. My dreams are _nothing_. And for all that—for all that—I get a 'Merry Christmas'." She laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "At least I got that."

Molly steps in closer, eyes leaky but face set, like she doesn't even notice the tears. She drops her voice to a whisper. "You're a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes. _So _cruel. But right now? I'm going to teach you a lesson, a lesson of forgiving and selflessness." Her face is twisted in hate, her eyes contaminated with abhor. "Don't ruin it for John. He still has a lot to live for. He's going to get married, continue with his career." For the first time, the tears trickle into Molly's voice. "Don't break him too."

And she's out of the room before I can react, like a gust of wind turning summer cold. I'm left blinking in the empty morgue, smoking a empty cigarette.

"Let's have dinner." She smiles at me flirtatiously. I narrow my eyes. Irene has what she wants. She finally came out and asked for it—I needed to crack her silly little code. Why would she still need me?

Or—maybe she doesn't need me. Maybe she just _wants _me.

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm not," I reply, wanting to divert conversation into an area where I feel comfortable but unwilling to give it up altogether.

A smile twists onto her face, and I can just _hear _her cackling. "Good."

My pulse quickens. If I'm going to do this, I have to do this now, but I have to see, I have to know if she's for real. I'm acutely aware of her hand resting on mine, and I pray to any God up there that my hand isn't sweating. "Why would I . . ." I craftily maneuver my hand under her arm, palm up. " . . . want to have . . ." Irene looks down and sees my hand, and the look on her face is a rich mixture of pleasure, smugness, and triumph. " . . . dinner . . ." There! I have it. I can feel her pulse—it's racing. A thrill sprints through me. _Do I, Sherlock Holmes, have a woman who's fallen for me?_

_Molly . . ._

A wave of pain rushes through me, and I block it out, determined to get back to the flattered, happy feeling from before. I set my eyes on hers, then noticeably lower them to her lips. I can tell she sees it, but her heavily mascaraed eyes were already fixed on my lips. _Was this . . . flirting? Then why didn't I _feel _anything? Wasn't my pulse supposed to be racing, like hers was?_

My voice drops about an octave. "If I wasn't hungry?"

"_Oh, _Mr. Holmes," she purrs, her fingertips brushing my hand, keeping me entertained with a promise of more—_Well. She _was _a professional at this sort of thing, wasn't she?—_"if it were the end of the world, if this were the _very last night _. . ." Her mouth is terrifyingly close to mine, and even in this intimate moment, I still feel oddly detached. _Is that it? Am I a lost cause? Because if I have _this_ woman, of all women, after me and I don't feel a thing—then there must be something wrong with me._

Irene looks me in the eye, and it's almost pleading. "Would you have dinner with me?"

I don't know. I don't know. _I—don't—KNOW!_

I hate not knowing.

I take a breath, not knowing (_not knowing!_) what was going to come out of my mouth, and—"Sherlock?"

Irene's face falls, her eyes seething at losing her catch. "Too late." Her voice is laden with—disappointment?

_Disappointment?_

Suddenly, there's the sound and scuffle of boots on the steps, and I fling my head up to see who could possibly interrupt our so educational conversation. And—oh.

Molly. Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper, with hair no longer parted at the side per my preference, but pushed back and down, with her shoulders acting like the rock in the middle of the river, sending some to her back and some stretching down to her heart.

_Molly Hooper. _Why, at _this _particular time, would she show up at my flat and interrupt my—

_"__You." _For a second I think she's talking to me, and I freeze, because the cold, unmerciful fury in her voice is terrifying and so _not _like the Molly Hooper I so knew and lov—but then I look into her eyes and see they're not directed to me, but to—Irene?  
I stare at the two of them, Molly's fatal glare matched with Irene's cool indifference. "Hello, _Dr._ Hooper, dear."

I've never seen Molly tremble so with anger as I saw now. I could never have even imagined it. I clear my throat, feeling rather like the two women who were supposed to be fawning over me had forgotten I was in the room. "Do you two . . . know each other?" I ask, attempting to compose my voice mildly. Molly doesn't even look at me. "In a sense," she answers, her eyes fixed in a glare, and Irene laughs with an air of suppressed cruelty. "What _Dr. _Hooper means to say—"

"SHUT UP!" Molly screams, and I whip my head to her, expecting to see her leaping on Irene and clawing her eyes, but Molly gets control of herself and takes a deep breath.

_What in the world? _

I look at them carefully, studying their every move. Molly's fiery eyes, seething in anger, and Irene's apparent tepid disposition—but I could see that underneath, there was a sadistic sort of amusement.

_What had _happened _between them?_

I stand up, putting myself between the two women, almost thinking I was going to have to hold them off of each other, without stopping to wonder why I care so much. "Molly," I ask, putting purposeful calmness in my voice. "Why exactly are you so mad at Irene?"

Something changes in her face, looking rather like the structure trying to support the weight of her anger broke, and she almost growls. "I'll tell you why." Pointing at Irene, Molly takes a breath, and lets it all go.

"She—_that woman!_—if you can even call her that—went to the same college as I did, and from the first second she saw me, she proceeded to _ruin _my life."

Irene laughs. "Oh, come now," she protests deceptively, "I didn't _ruin _your life."

Molly looks outraged. "Rodents in my bed! Lies to my boyfriends! My diary given to every student! DON'T TELL ME YOU—"

"Molly!" I restrain her, all too aware of my hands on her firm shoulders, but Molly keeps her eyes narrowed towards Irene. "But the _worst, _the absolute _worst _was when _I, _the uncool, unknown freshmen, was about to star in the play." Rueful desperation crosses Molly's face, and her words are almost pleading. "I had been practicing all semester. The director loved me! He had invited Broadway scouts to see it!" Bitterness clouds Molly's eyes, and her next words are sharp. "Then _her, _that _whore_—"

"I am," Irene interrupts smoothly, but Molly ignores her. "—the _lowest _of the low, who couldn't even scrape a no-line roll—she has to go _sleep _with the theater director, and next thing I know, I'm out of the play." I can see the tears of sorrowful anger in her eyes. Irene lets out a chortle, obviously mistaking Molly's tears for weakness, and Molly fixes her with a glare. "You," she starts, "are a vicious, jealous halfwit who ruined my chances of a beautiful career."

Irene's face has fallen into a stuck, blank visage as she stares at the pathologist. I swallow, suddenly hating how cruel Irene was being, how she didn't care because Molly was ordinary, and hating myself even more, because I know I've made Molly hurt like this.

Molly takes a breath, and her face calms. "But I guess I have to thank you for that."

My eyes widen. I never expected that, and by the shocked look on Irene's face, the first break in her so impenetrable defense, I can tell she didn't expect that either.

Molly takes in our surprised faces and says, "If Irene hadn't destroyed my acting chances, I never would've become a doctor, and that was the best choice I've ever made. So thank you." Molly holds out her hand to shake Irene's, and the stunned dominatrix slowly puts out her own, but Molly pulls her hand back before they can contact, a small, sly smile on her face. "I still hate you."

Irene nods, accepting this. "I know."

Molly turns away from Irene and, for what seems like the first time in this exchange, notices me, but luckily Irene seems to have exhausted all of Molly's anger. She just shakes her head at me and turns away. I swallow, hard.

"I need the files on Dravis Lake," Molly says, not looking at me, "Mike Stamford said you'd have them."

Not answering, I walk over to the kitchen counter, where my microscope is, and pull the file out. Molly takes it without a word and is out of the flat and down the stairs in what seems like an instant.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. Irene makes a small giggle. "Well, wasn't that unexpected." She slides into my field of view, demanding attention, which is a familiar relief. When she doesn't get anything for her efforts, she sighs and stands up. "I'm going to bed." She gazes forlornly at me, still staring at that same, invisible point on the wall. "You can come in if you like." When I don't reply, she sighs again and pads down the hall. I hear her go into my bedroom and close the door, and I let out another breath.

Molly Hooper and Irene Adler—both displaying the same tangible, undeniable strength, but Molly's more . . . soft, quiet about it. Irene does everything she can to make it known, and that sometimes defeats the purpose of having it at all. But Molly is most times unaware of possessing it, which sometimes increases it. I don't know whose strength is greater. But I know that Molly Hooper won the battle tonight.

**Author's Note: If anyone's ever read ****_A Tale of Two Cities _****by Charles Dickins (I ****_strongly _****recommend it, by the way—best book ever!), you might see the connection. In the face-off at the end of the book, Molly is Miss Pross, and Irene is Madame Defarge (though you'll notice she doesn't get shot with her own pistol). **

**Okay! Anyway . . . next chapter is going to be a doozie! It might take a while (it's going to be pretty long) but I promise, it'll be worth it.**

**What do you think of the Irene/Molly connection? What do you think of Molly's anger? Molly is a very frustrated person, with an astonishing range of emotions, but right now she's confident and secure in her relationship with Jim. But that'll change next chapter . . .**

**(And, yes, I know that the Sherlock/Irene conversation is actually interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. I do, guys. I really, really do.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**** Okay! Seventh chapter! Yaaay!**

**Thank you sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooomuch to avasmom28681, MaybeltsJustMyType, the-art-of-escape, Bunnyrabbit100, and Icecat62 for following, favoriting or reviewing my story! You guys are the best!**

**Thank you to Jinikinz2468 for following me! Thou art amazing!**

**the-art-of-escape: I will try my very, very hardest. Next chapter will be a ****_long _****chapter (last chapter was almost 9,000 words!), around the size of the last chapter. I'm just going to give an individual shout out to you, because you have been reading and giving me feedback from the start, and I really appreciate it. :)**

**Icecat62: Thanks! I think after the whole Irene Adler disaster, he was feeling betrayed, lonely, and abandoned and he just needed someone to help him through it and cheer him up (Molly!). You'll see a lot of that in this chapter. **

**Bunnyrabbit100: Thank you so much! It's great to know how you guys receive it. The acting in this show is so amazingly well done that when I'm watching it, I can just ****_see _****the thoughts fly through their heads. **

**Bunnyrabbit100: Good! I'm glad it was a surprise (so often these things are not). **

Chapter Seven:

_Molly_

It was raining, the type of rain that pounds and pounds relentlessly, the type of rain that generates lightning and thunder for children to ooh and aw at—or, for some, boo and hoo at—the type of rain that seems like it will never end—until all of a sudden it does. And then the streets are wet and dripping, exhausted from the heavy toll of the rain, and the sky is still overcast, like the clouds hadn't realized it was time to leave yet.

I sigh and stare out the window at the brave few raindrops that cling to it. Jim was going to be so disappointed. I failed, Irene Adler failed . . . and it cost her her life. Sherlock Holmes is just untouchable. It's impossible to get at him.

"Irene Adler, dead . . ." I try the words out in my mouth, getting the feel of them. Nope. It still doesn't seem real.

But Sherlock . . . it had hurt me, more than I realized, at Christmas. I was more emotionally attached, _to Sherlock Holmes, _than I thought, and it really bothered me that he could be so barbarous and inhuman. Not to mention I was embarrassed that all of my friends thought that I was in love with him . . .

Was I in love with him? Even I could admit I took a bit of fancy to him, but it couldn't be more than a schoolgirl crush, could it? And then there was Jim to consider. It would be terribly ironic if I _did _fall in love with Sherlock, with Jim being the one who brought us together.

But what would be the _point _of being in love with Sherlock Holmes? It could never go anywhere, not with him being the heartless monster he is. With Jim, however . . . I could see a future for us. Suddenly, I imagine getting married, settling down, having kids, growing old together . . . It would be . . . nice. Yes. Marrying Jim would definitely be _nice_.

But it would be _so _boring.

But marrying Sherlock . . .

"Molly? Hey, Molls . . ." Jim's voice calls from the front door, and I turn to see him put away his key. His face lights up when he sees me. "How's my very favorite girlfriend?"

I giggle, embracing him. "Great."

He pulls back, smiling at me. "Good. Hey, could you make us some tea?"

"Sure," I say, walking over to the kitchen. He sits down at the counter. "Have you seen Sherlock recently?"

I stop, the teapot frozen in my hand. I take a breath. "Could we not talk about this, Jim?"  
He sees my hesitation. "What? What happened?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Nothing." I pour the tea into his cup, averting my eyes. "Sugar?"

He ignores my attentions to derail him. "Come on, Molly. What happened?"

I sigh, setting the teapot down harder than I perhaps needed to, and look him in the eye. I purse my lips. "It's done. I failed."

Jim swallows. "No, Molly. You're my last hope. Irene's dead. There's only so far you can get with threats." His eyes reek of desperation. "I _need _you, Molly."

I frown, resting my head on my palms. "Did you really think Irene was going to succeed?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. She's never failed before."

I smile smugly at Jim, happy to have one over on Irene. "He broke her," I say. "She fell in love. Which, of course, is usually disastrous in her line of work."

He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "As in mine," he says affectionately, and I wait for the warm feeling to fill every particle of my being, but—no. There's something . . . _off _about this time. I swallow and lean away quietly, and though Jim obviously notices, he says nothing.

I put my half-drunk tea mug in the sink, an excuse to turn away from him. I admit I reacted coldly when I learned of Irene's death, though I had made my peace with her. I suspect she would've reacted the same way to mine.

When I look back at Jim, he's staring at some stray piece of carpet, lost in thought. He looks up when he notices me. "Well, I'd better be off."

"Wait, what?" I ask, confused. "So soon?"

He winces. "Yeah, I just dropped in to say hi. I've got, you know," He gives me a half-wink, "work stuff. Oh!" He rummages around in his coat. "I thought I might drop this off." He tosses a bundle on my coffee table, points a finger at me in a fond farewell, and walks out the door.

I pick up the bundle of newspaper and see, on the front page, a picture of Sherlock in his hated hat with the bold caption _Hat-man and Robin! _I chuckle to myself, and sit down to read the article.

_Brriiing. Brriiing. Brriiing. _

I groan and open one eye to look at the time. _1:02. _

_Brriiing. Brriiing. Brriiing._

I groan again and pick up the phone. "Hello?" I ask thickly, hoping that however was calling had a good enough reason this early.

"Hey, Molly!" I hear my older brother's all-too energetic voice on the other end, and I sigh. "Derek. What do you want?"

"Oh, sorry, Moll. I forgot. The time difference."

I rub my eyes. "Well, I hope you're having a wonderful time in America. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get some _sleep_." I nearly hang up the phone, but Derek interrupts me. "That's not why I called. Is that your _ex _who stole the Crown Jewels?"

I sit straight up. "_What _ex?"

Derek's laughing at me now, but I don't even hear him. My heart is pounding and I can hear the blood rushing through my ears, and I have never been so awake. Because there's only two people in the world that could've pulled that off.

And I only ever dated one of them.

"Derek!" I shout, and the laughter stops abruptly. "Okay, okay. Jeez, Molly. It's that Jim Moriarty guy. You _did _break up with him, didn't you?"

Lies, of course. I told my family that I ended it because Jim wanted to "protect our privacy" or whatever.

Derek doesn't wait for me to answer. "He's a nutcase, I'm telling you. He also _emptied _the vault in the Bank of England _and _organized a break at Pentonville."

It was like a slap in the face. A cold, brooding feeling washes up from my stomach, and I feel nauseous.

What has Jim done?  
I hang up on Derek, not even bothering to say goodbye, and automatically dial Jim's number. _It has to be some sort of joke, a prank._

But I know in my heart it's not.

I bounce impatiently, each ring leaving me with less hope. _Beep. "Jim Moriarty. Hi. Please leave a message." Beep._

"What the hell, Jim," I whisper to myself, and hang up the phone. Cold tears trace down my cheeks, and I put my face in my hands and let myself sob, and sob, and sob.

I _just _saw him. Today. Presumably before he stole some of the most famous jewels ever known to mankind, robbed the largest, richest bank in the world, and broke into the most secure prison in the United Kingdom.

He had _lied, _and _lied, _and _lied. _I can see it all so clearly now. He had betrayed me.

Why hadn't he told me? Why had he chose to keep _this _a secret, of all secrets, from me? He trusts me, right? I wouldn't have turned him in . . . probably.

Unless.

Unless he didn't even love me. Unless he was just using me to keep Sherlock distracted. Unless he had tricked me all along, and I and Irene Adler and everyone else were just part of his little plan.

I feel sick.

My phone is out and my fingers are flying across the keypad, but it isn't until it's already dialing that I realize who I was calling.

He answers on the first ring. "What?" he demands sharply, and I can hear the undertone, _Make it quick and don't be boring._

I swallow. "Did you hear about Ji—Moriarty?"

Sherlock sighs, and I automatically feel bad for making him bored. _Wait . . . what? What is going on? Why do I feel _bad _for making this jerk bored?  
_Unless he wasn't a jerk. Unless Jim lied about him being a murderer. Unless Jim's intent all along wasn't to jail him, but to ki—

"_Of course _I did. I—wait." I can hear the frown in his voice. "Why are you up? Isn't nighttime where you spend countless hours of lying in one position only partially conscious doing absolutely nothing and wasting half your life?"

I furrow my eyebrows quizzically, even though I know he can't see me. "You mean sleep?"

"Yeah! That."

I fidget. "I woke up." Rushing on, determined not to let him ask me _why_ I woke up, I add, "Do you know when he—Moriarty—is going to trial?"

"Six weeks," he replies in that cut, short way of his. "I'll be the star witness."

I give my customary nervous laugh. "Star witness? But you weren't even there."

"No, but can you think of anyone else in the world who knows he better than I do?" Sherlock asks in that mocking, sneering way of his, then hangs up before I can even answer.

I push the OFF button on my phone. "I thought I did," I say quietly.

**Six Weeks Later**

Wednesday. The day of the trial, the "trial of the century", the trial that everyone is waiting for, the trial that will send Jim to jail.

And all I can do is wait, wait for the verdict, and wonder what I hope it will be. I'm don't connive, but . . . Jim is—was—is?—my boyfriend. I sigh and stare out the window drinking tea, lost in thought.

"Molly."

I whirl around, spilling my cuppa all over myself. And standing there, behold in infamous glory, is James Moriarty.

I drop my mug, and it shatters on the wood floor. My eyes bug out, and I have to blink a couple of times to register what I'm seeing. "Jim!"

He slings his bag over my couch, and for a second it seems just like old times. "Did you get a new sofa?"

Ignoring this, I continue to stare in shock, unsure whether to hug or slap him. "What are you doing here?"  
"Well," he says, hands in pockets and casual like it's a normal day, "haven't seen my girlfriend in six weeks, just got acquitted, thought I might pop by and say hi."

If my eyes could pop out any further, they would. "They _acquitted _you?"

Jim nods, like this should be obvious. "Yeah."

I can feel the steam boiling up as I recover from my shock. "But you were found _wearing _the Crown Jewels, Jim. Don't you tell me that you aren't guilty."

He shrugs. "I am what the court says I am. And the court says I'm free."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Jim." I advance on him, my face in a horrendous glare. "_Why _did you steal the jewels and rob the Bank of England and open Pentonville Prison? And _why _didn't you tell me?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but I cut him off. "You are a liar, a filthy liar. There was never anything wrong with Sherlock—there has always been something wrong with _you_." Horrible realization is dawning on me, and terror grips me. _My God. What have I done?_

Horrified and furious, I yell, "You don't even love me! You were only using me to get at Sherlock so you could—"

I stop suddenly, the danger I put Sherlock in suddenly registering. I gulp, staring at Jim's straight, unemotional face and realizing what danger _I'm _in.

I suddenly try to make a break for the door, but Moriarty catches my hair and I yelp as I feel the cold metal barrel of a pistol against my head. I freeze, quivering, and feel myself once again in Jim's warm arms.

But this couldn't be more different.

"Oh, Molly," he trills calmly, "I was wondering when you would figure my little _scheme_." He chuckles, but there's no warmth in it. The dissimilarity between Jim my boyfriend and Jim the mass murderer is shocking. "You idiot. You _tried, _and _tried, _and _tried, _and still couldn't get him. Get Sherlock. But that's okay. It was never really a big part of my plan anyway. I just loved seeing you _dance_." He puts on a high voice and I bite my lip as the man I thought I loved imitates me. "Look at me, Sherlock! I'm over here, Sherlock! Love me, Sherlock!" Moriarty laughs again, but there's no humor in it, no life in it, nothing at all in it. "All you managed to do was make him hate you even more. But you love him, don't you." He pulls my hair and squeezes me, and I let out a terrified squawk. He laughs at my fear, enjoying it. "Just a little bit? Just a teeny weeny bit?" Moriarty giggles like a teenage girl, but all I can focus on is the gun against my head, cold. So cold.

His voice turns sour again. "I will kill him. Sherlock. You wouldn't like that, would you?" I squirm, but as my own personal form of rebellion, refuse to answer. "So there's no use threatening you over that. But everyone else you love will die too. Derek and Paul and Ralph and your mother, whom you have been ignoring." He tuts. "_So _naughty. And all your friends, too. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about them. Mindy and Lestrade and John and Stephanie and everyone else."

It _killed _me to hear Jim—Moriarty—talk about all the ones I hold most dear like that. Like they were nothing. Like he would kill them in a snap, and _enjoy _it. And right now? I have no doubts that he would.

And he's going to kill Sherlock . . .

And I did this to him.

And there's no going back.

I will the tears not to come, but a lonely one does escape, and trickle down my cheek slowly before falling onto Moriarty's hand. He notices and his lips curl into a sneering smirk. "Oh, come now. Don't cry. There's an easy enough prevention."

I continue to say nothing.

"Do not tell anyone of what I have planned. I have spies _all _over, Miss Molly. And I know your _whole life's story_." He finishes in a whisper, then chuckles, marveling at the ridiculousness of the situation. "And you gave it to me."

He releases me suddenly, putting away the gun. I stumble away from him, eyes wide. His eyes are cold, and dark, and empty. I find no shelter in them now. Moriarty raises his eyebrows. "Don't test me, Miss Hooper," he drawls lazily. "It's so expensive to mail body parts nowadays."

He gives one last snigger before collecting his things and practically waltzing out the door. The second he's gone, I collapse into a heap of sobbing confusion on the floor, crying for my friends and family, crying for the beautiful relationship I once had with the fictional "Jim from IT", and most of all, crying for Sherlock Holmes, who doesn't know it yet but is already standing in his grave.

**Two Months Later**

I work my coat on as I leave Barts. I had spent the last eight weeks working late and not speaking much to anybody, but today I was meeting my brother and his new wife for lunch down at Randy's Diner.

I walk down the hall, feeling more lonely than ever. No one understands. No one could _possibly _understand.

I reach out to open the door, but it opens for me. "Molly!"

Sherlock.

Trying to act nonchalant, I say, "Oh, hello. I'm just going out."

But Sherlock and John turn me around and practically frogmarch me back into the lab. "No, you're not."

I mildly try to protest, "But I've got a lunch date!" but in all truth, I love being swept up in Sherlock and John's excitement. I can never do more than peek into their thrilling lives, but just a taste is enough to make me wish for more.

"Cancel it, you're having lunch with me," Sherlock orders, pulling out some crisp bags as evidence of the feast. Feeling a little disoriented, I say, "What?"

Having lunch with Sherlock . . . a date with Sherlock . . . would be . . .

Not possible.

"Need your help," Sherlock explains, and even though I knew it already, I feel just a bit disappointed. Why, why, _why _do I only see him when he needs me?

"It's one of your boyfriends, we're trying to track him down, he's been a bit _naughty._" Sherlock continues, and I feel another pang. It's Jim, I know it is. But it's too soon. It hurts too much.

I stop, and the boys slow to open the door. John looks a bit confused, telling Sherlock. "It's Moriarty."

Just hearing him mentioned—and being in the same room with Sherlock and John, whom he threatened by name—is almost too much. My heart is thumping too fast and my breathing too irregular, and I try to calm myself down.

John may not, but Sherlock obviously remembers when Jim revealed himself as my "date", and I feel involuntarily flattered. Sherlock narrows his eyes at John as if he were being slow on purpose. "Of course it's Moriarty."

I feel the need to defend myself, so I say, "Jim wasn't actually even my boyfriend. We went out three times." I swallow, half proudly, trying to sell the lie. "I ended it."

Oh, if only I had.

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England, and organized a prison break at Pentonville, for the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock talks so quickly it's hard to wrap my mind around it, and then he holds up the crisps and strolls into the lab. John looks used to Sherlock's slightly condescending humor, and follows him into the lab, and I find I have no choice but to go in as well. _Sorry, Ralph._

The next couple hours are quite nerve-wracking. Sherlock has a whole great plan in his head, and John and I are just his little workers. It's like he goes away completely when he's working—to his mind palace, I suppose—and I have to get everything right and do it all perfectly. "Alkaline," I tell him, and feel pleased that I got it right and could help—until he says, "Thank you, John," and I realize I'm just hands and a brain to him. Nothing else. _Nothing_. I hardly bother correcting him but decide to just to see his reaction. "Molly."

"Yes."

Nothing. Less than nothing.

Why am I even helping him?

Sherlock mutters something, and I ignore it and focus on my work. The pH is three, so that must mean—

"I . . . owe . . . you . . ." Sherlock mutters again, and I puzzle over it, allowing myself to become momentarily disconnected from my analysis.

"Glycerol molecule," Sherlock says—to himself, obviously. "What are you?"

I swallow, gathering my courage, because if what he says means what I think it means—"What did you mean, "I owe you"?" I attempt causality, searching his face—glued in the microscope as usual. I prod him. "You said "I owe you". You were muttering it while you were working." I wish I could see his face.

He tries to brush it off, "Nothing. Mental note."

Of course he wouldn't try to tell me, try to confide in me. At least he's honest. It's more than Jim ever was.

I can't focus now. I can't. The correlation is too clear, too terrifying. It's like rereading a sad book, when you know your favorite character is going to die and now you suddenly see the signs but can't do anything about it.

I gaze at Sherlock, wondering if I'll ever see him again. And if I don't, I need to know that I at least I _tried _to help him. That I at least I didn't let Moriarty ruin me completely.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead," I say, then, innerly cursing myself and suddenly realizing the awkward comparison, I hurry, "Oh, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area," Sherlock tells me, but I don't feel how he wants me to feel, I don't feel hurt. I'm like John, with steel protection up whenever he's around, so that he can't touch me. Because I _have _to say what I want to say, I _have _to get it out. I can't let him die again. Because this isn't a novel, not really. I have some power, however limited, to change it.

While he talks, I think of what to say, try it out in my mouth, because I know how important this is. When he finishes, I've hardly heard him. "When he was . . ." It hurt to say the word—"_dying_, he was always cheerful, he was lovely." My voice changes. "Except when he thought no one could see." I'm looking at Sherlock, scared. So, so scared. I swallow. "I saw him once. He looked . . . sad."

"Molly . . ." Sherlock says warningly, but I'm too far in—it's too important—to stop now. "You look sad." I look over at John, happily oblivious to it all. "When you think he can't see you." Sherlock flicks his eyes over to him, too.

He doesn't deny it.

"Are you okay?" I ask, _needing_ to know, to know if Moriarty contacted him, threatened him, told him about our relationship, anything. "Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you." It means that you're putting on a brave face. It means that you actually care, because you want someone to feel better than you feel.

When you see that look on someone's face, you know that they're not going to last very long. And the scary thing? They know it too.

For the first time, Sherlock looks up from his microscope. "You can see me."  
I half-smile a lackluster smile, discounting myself. It's a little awkward that I noticed some the great Sherlock Holmes didn't. "I don't count."

And the look he gave me then was so special and so strange, so disbelieving and so surprised, it made me look down to gather myself for a second. "What I'm trying to say is if there's anything I can do, anything you need . . . anything at all . . . you can have me." No! Why am I so _clumsy, _verbally speaking?!

"No, I just mean . . ." I take a deep breath, knowing I'm talking to the wall here. "I mean if there's anything you need—" I stop, saving myself from rejection, and my voice drops to a disappointed lull. "It's fine." I turn away. I can't look at him right now, can't see his face. I know him better than he thinks I do. I know that he doesn't care about anyone but John and Mrs. Hudson and possibly Lestrade, and I know what he'll say next.

And he says it, in the same confused manner I predicted. "But what could I need from you?"

It's not mean, just bewildered, but it still hurts, because there's a ring of truth. I have _nothing _to offer. _Nothing_. I am utterly useless. I am utterly useless and Jim saw it and decided to make me the least bit useful, because he knew that the utterly useless ones are the loneliest ones. And I couldn't even manage that. "Nothing. I don't know."

My next words are daring, but I've achieved so much that I might as well. I'm like a mother trying—and failing—to teach manners. "You could probably say "thank you", actually."

He frowns, testing the words out in his mouth. His eye twitches. "Thank you?"

Good. There. I've accomplished that. I can die now. I've done what I was sent on this earth to do. "I'm going to go grab some crisps," I tell the still-taken-aback Sherlock, then, purely out of politeness, "Do you want anything?" Without giving him time to answer, I turn away with, "It's okay. I know you don't."

I hear his voice, trying to make up for his treatment of me, get this at least, prove that he _can _be a little socially acceptable, "Well, actually maybe I'll have—"

Don't try, Sherlock. You'll beat me intellectually any day, but emotionally you're an open book. "I know you don't."

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave.

**Three Days Later**

I'm the last one out of the lab, turning off lights and locking doors. I get to the main door and turn the knob, glad to be going home, when—

"You're wrong, you know."

I gasp, clutching my heart, sure it's Moriarty come to fulfill his subtextual promise of death. But it's only Sherlock, and the pain in his voice as he says, "You do count."

I'm still breathing hard, but his words hit me in the heart and explode all over my body, and I feel like I'm living an impossible dream. For I know Sherlock, and I know when he's trying to use me, or flatter me, or anything else, and this is not that.

"You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He sounds . . . rueful. And sad. So very sad.

Right. Sad when John can't see.

But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he's protecting John, but he can be honest with me, because he knows I can handle it. I don't need protection.

"But you were right." He looks at me now, and in that look I see apologies and hopelessness and pleas. "I'm not okay."

I knew it. I knew it. Moriarty—he's a demon, a monster. He has to be stopped, no matter the risk. I need to stop being selfish and scared and help end his reign.

I could've said a lot of things then. I could've said, "Actions speak louder than words" or "Do you really expect me to believe that?" But I only say, "Tell me what's wrong."

"Molly," Sherlock says gravely, stepping out of the shadows. "I think I'm going to die."

He speaks the words I've been thinking for the past two months, and I internally scream. I'm torn in a violent war between Sherlock and my family, and an inner, mocking voice chants, _Which one, which one, which one._

But I already know which one. It's only logical. If I save Sherlock, I'll kill Moriarty. Neither can live while the other survives.

But it doesn't make it any less frightening.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am . . ." He looks at me, studying my face, "everything that _I _think I am . . . would you still want to help me?"

Moriarty's been spreading lies. Moriarty's been striking at the naturally jealous ones and infecting the others. Moriarty could do this. Moriarty's done a lot of things. But he's not going to do this to me.

Sherlock is trying to warn me that it's not going to be easy. I'm going to have to lie, and pretend, or get ridiculed. It's going to be hard.

And if he thinks that's going to stop me, he's wrong. "What do you need?"

He steps in closer, his sparkling blue-green eyes dilated. "You."

And that is precisely when I realized I loved Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**** I decided to split this one into two chapters. I will be starting the next one with the "I Don't Count" scene from Sherlock's perspective.**

**Yes, so, next one's going to be very long! **

**Don't expect updates for a week (sorry!), going on vaca without my laptop. A thousand apologies. I'll make it worth it, I promise.**

**Thanks a million. Please review and tell me what you want to see! (Hint: If you tell me, it'll probably happen! If you don't tell me, it probably ****_won't _****happen! So tell me!)**

**Post-Script: How'd you like the Harry Potter reference? ;P**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:**** You guys are too good to me. Seriously. Thank you, the-art-of-escape, The Science of Deduction-SH, hubblybubbly, EmJoy789, Madeline Khill, The Gift of Insanity, Bunnyrabbit100, and bnd26 for reviewing, favoriting, or following my story! You make it worth writing :)**

**the-art-of-escape: Well, I hope I'm able to show my perspective of Sherlock's perspective of the "I Don't Count" scene (which was super monumental for Molly in the show). And you touched on what is going to be a big part of coming chapters . . . the Molly-Moriarty connection. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait and see :) (Oh, and I usually keep my PM off. Sorry)**

**The Science of Deduction-SH: Oh, okay, I see what you mean . . . sorry, everyone! Fanfiction was being weird with my formatting . . . Thanks for pointing that out! I went back and fixed it. Let me know if that happens again! :)**

**I am SOOOO sorry about the long wait. Next chapter will come **_**super **_**quickly! 3**

Chapter Eight

_Sherlock_

"I . . . owe . . . you . . ." I mutter, unable to get Moriarty's words out of my head, his sneering tone, his almost cheerful mocking. _He _owes _me. He owes me a fall. But a fall can be so many different things. Which type does he mean?_

Molly works quietly beside me, just like always when I come into Barts to use the microscope. And for a moment, everything is right, everything is normal. I have Molly by my side and John covering my back, and together we can rule the world.

_I . . . owe . . . you . . ._

"Glycerol molecule," I say to myself, squinting at it as though it were being rather rude for not revealing to me what it is. "What _are _you?"

Silence, for a moment, blessed silence. Then: "What did you mean, "I owe you"?" She looks at me. "You said "I owe you"." Ugh. Molly. Stop _talking_.

Though it was a nice change, I'll admit, from yelling and screaming and being mad. A strange change—making me wonder what caused it—but I make the snap decision to put on my blinders and appreciate it, rather than question it like I so often do.

I ignore her, hoping she'll give up, but she persists. "You were muttering while you were working."

"Nothing," I tell her quickly, studying the microscope. "Mental note."

She hesitates, and for a second I almost think I've won and the silence will endure, but then she says, "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead."

I'm not looking at her, but it's like I can _hear _her wince. "Oh, sorry."

Really? Is this what normal people do in their spare time? Make small talk about useless, stupid things?

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area." My words are cold and harsh, but I want to hurt her, want to make her feel pain so she'll stop. She's teetering on the edge, and I can't let her know I'm going to—

"When he was . . . _dying, _he was always cheerful, he was lovely." Molly gazes at me, my insults bouncing off her like photons bounce off light surfaces. I can feel my heart speed up, and I'm scared of her next words. _Because she knows me, she knows I'm being my own version of cheerful, so she must know I'm a dead man walking._

"Except when he thought no one could see," she continues, an ominous edge to her tone. Her face changes, and I can tell she's remembering a stolen moment from so long ago. "I saw him once. He looked . . . sad."

"Molly . . ." I warn her, my voice dangerously calm. _She can't find out, she can't find out, she can't find out. It would hurt her too much, and it would hurt me to see her hurt._

She persists, recklessly throwing away danger. "You look sad. When you think he can't see you." I glance over at John, caring John, John my best friend, John the greatest man ever put on this Earth, John who doesn't understand at all.

"Are you okay?" I open my mouth, about to reassure her that I am, but she beats me to it. "And don't just say that you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

There is a little flaw in her explanation, and I know why it's there. I look sad around her because I don't need _not _be sad. Molly is there for me when John is leaving me for his sister, Molly is there for me when I need to get away and use the microscope and sit in complete and utter silence, Molly is there for me when I need to make horrible deductions about someone, and Molly is there for me when I need to let my shields down and look sad.

But I'm suddenly realizing that she doesn't know that.

"You can see me," I remind her, and she gives an awkward half-smile, as though the answer were obvious. "I don't count."

For the first time in my life, I am thoroughly and utterly shocked. If someone were to poke me, I would fall over. Staring at Molly, at her brown hair with the wispy fly-aways, at her imperfect face and her deep understanding eyes, I can't _possibly _comprehend why she would think a thing like that. She is so, so wrong. So entirely wrong.

She is truly the only one I can wholly and completely trust. With others, I play little games—insulting them, deducing them, ignoring them. With Molly, I just be who I am, with no shields or barriers, no nothing, because I know that, no matter what, she will accept me. She will take me in with open arms and love me, and give me a shoulder to cry on and a tissue to wipe my eyes.

Am I really that bad? Have I really acted so disinterested and so indifferent that I have distanced her, ruined her, made her think that I don't care about her? If being myself is that bad, then . . . well, maybe I do deserve to die.

Molly's talking, and I make myself focus on her. I have to win her back. I have to show her that she _does _count. "What I'm trying to say is if there's anything I can do, anything you need—anything at all—you can have me."

Molly pauses, almost smiling at her awkward mistake, but, inside, I feel . . . wanted, needed. I feel like maybe it would matter if I died—to someone other than myself, I mean.

No.

No, I cannot let this happen. I cannot let her start to care about me again, just to have me die. It would hurt her too much, and that's not fair. Because while Molly understands about looking sad when you're alone, I understand loving someone who's dead, and how painful that is.

Molly corrects herself hurriedly, "No, I just mean . . ." She takes a breath, and I restrain my impulse to interrupt her. "I mean . . ."

And suddenly the wind goes out of her and she gives up, as if anticipating my next words. "It's fine."

Here it is. Here's my chance. I have to fulfill her every worst expectation, make her _hate _me, so that when I die—when I die—maybe it won't hurt as bad.

"But what could I need from you?" I ask, trying to sound perplexed.

"Nothing." She shakes her head, as genuinely perplexed as I was trying to be. "I don't know."

_Does she really think that? Does she really think that she means so little? _How _can she think that? What drove her to this level of insecurity?_

I don't know. And I _hate _not knowing.

She purses her lips, as if waiting, but I have no idea what for. So I wait with her, and she eventually gives up. "You could probably say "Thank you", actually."

_Yes. Finally, some exertion. She needs to gain confidence. I can't shut her down. _

So I humor her. I open my mouth, about to say it—but something stops me. How do I say it, those all-important, seemingly harmless two little words? I have never said them before, as I recall. So how do I phrase it? Not sarcastic—certainly not. Maybe . . . apologetic? No, that wouldn't work either. Frowning with effort, I try to make it as clean and simple as possible. "Thank you."

_No, no, no, that was terrible. That came out all wrong. But I can get this. I just need to practice._

_ Practice . . . wait, what? When would I ever need to say that again?_

Moving past me, Molly says, "I'm just going to get some crisps, do you want anything?" Before I can say "no", she answers for me, "That's okay, I know you don't."

_Whoa . . . hold up! Since when can you deduce me quicker than I can deduce you?_

This entire conversation has been incredibly puzzling. Molly acting so strangely, saying the oddest, most unpredictable, un-Molly-like things, her apparent knowledge of what I'm going to say before I say it, my deduction powers evidently not working. It's quite frustrating.

_Nope, I'm not going to let you win this time, you little brown-haired fox. _"Well, actually I'll—"

She doesn't even turn around. "I know you don't."

I sit back in my chair. _Okay, maybe you won this time._

_ But that doesn't mean it isn't extremely attractive._

Barts is cold tonight, filling me with a sense of foreboding. I wait in the dark, staring at nothing, letting my thoughts swirl around me.

She said she would help. She asked if there was anything she could do. And it's true—she's the only one, the _only _one who could possibly help me now.

Footsteps on tile floor and the sound of light switches being flipped off—accompanied by the following darkness—greet me, and Molly Hooper walks into the lab, not even noticing me. I let her get to the door—even grasp the handle—before saying, "You're wrong, you know."

She gasps and whirls around, her hand at her heart, but I take no notice of her fright. I'm too aware of my own pain, the pain that comes with putting one you love in danger.

Because I do love Molly Hooper. She's my friend. She's always there for me. She, and John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade—they're all my friends. They're all there for me.

_But if they're _all _there for me—why am I choosing Molly?_

Maybe it's because she dated Moriarty, and dumped him. Maybe it's because Moriarty will overlook her. Maybe it's because I believe she's as strong—if not stronger, somehow—than the rest.

My words are bordered with thickness, the closest I've ever come to crying. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." This time, I'm not trying to get a favor. This time, I'm not trying to make up for some cruel deduction. This is the truth, pure and simple. "But you were right," I say, this time looking at her, at her pale, shocked face, at her simple, modest clothes, at everything that makes her . . . _her_, Molly. "I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." Her face, her eyes, her body—I soak it up, beholding it, enjoying it, memorizing it, just in case this doesn't work out. Just in case she can't help me. Just in case I fall.

Because let's face it.

She's my last hope.

"Molly," I say, approaching her, the slight quiver in my voice betraying my fear and desperation, "I think I'm going to die."

I search her face and—yes! Yes, there it is! That helpful, encouraging, love-look—I've found it. It's there. I'm not alone anymore.

And something about the way she was looking at me made me . . . well, it made me not want to die.

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything you think I am," I tell her, advancing, warning her with my eyes, "everything that _I _think I am . . ." I come to rest only a couple feet away from her, and I can read everything about her expression, every little twitch, every tiny flicker.

And the scary thing is, I think she can read me just the same.

My eyes beg her, my expression implores her. " . . . would you still want to help me?"

She gives me that set, determined Molly-look I do believe I have fallen in love with. "What do you need?"

I take another step forward, closing the distance between us, my visage brimming with tenderness. I take a deep, internal breath, and tell her the truth. "You."

As I step out onto the sunlit rooftop, I contemplate how others would handle a situation like this. A nostalgic man might take a deep breath, contemplate the surroundings, feel the warm sun for a time last. A weak man might sob or whimper, thinking of loved ones, or beg for his life. But I am a straight-forward man, and I do only what straight-forward men do—I get it over with.

Moriarty is waiting for me, sitting rather precariously on the edge of the roof—_just as he sits so precariously on the edge of death. _He doesn't turn as I approach, just continues listening to "Stayin' Alive" on his mobile—probably purely for my ironic mind to devour. "Well," he announces, "here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem."

As he babbles on about some nonsense, I partially mute him, so that his voice is just a nasally drone in the background, like a car radio. I survey the immediate surrounds, and feel my heart dip as I eliminate one option, two options, _three _options.

"Stayin' alive!" Moriarty exclaims whiningly, holding up his phone, blaring the music. He glares at it, as if it were the mobile's fault. "It's so _boring, _isn't it!"

He switches off the music rather violently, and I resist the urge to stare at his psychotic impulses. "It's just . . ." Moriarty moves his hand in a straight line, possibly to indicate a—boring—timeline, "_staying . . ._" He puts his head in his hands, exhausted by the notion. I try to ignore his actions and continue scanning, but his words hit me hard. I can't pretend that they weren't mine, at one point, too.

But that was before I met John and Molly.

"All my life I've been searching for _distractions_," he complains, staring off into the distance, "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you."

_I could say the same. The _exact_ same._

"Because I've beaten you."

I look sharply at him, the irony in his statement almost—_almost_—reducing me to laughter. But the certainty in his voice stops me. _What if he knows something I don't, something different, something more._

I always knew I wasn't going to make it off the rooftop alive, but I knew he would never lower himself to shooting me. As he told me the day we met, _"I don't like to get my hands dirty." _No, he would do something cleaner, classier—the fall. He would make me jump.

And I would fall.

But Moriarty doesn't know about Molly.

"And you know what?" Moriarty's tone is taunting, so taunting, but I don't fall into his trap. "In the end, it was easy."

I remember my own words from so long ago, spoken to John when I first met him: _"That's the frailty of geniuses; they're always so desperate to be caught." _And when John questioned me, I said something like, _"They want credit," _and you know what? It's true. Too true. I have to literally bite my tongue to keep from blurting out my plan to Moriarty, just to see the look on his face.

Moriarty closes his eyes, as if it pains him to repeat, "It was easy." I can see him internally sigh. "Now I've got to go back to playing with the_ ordinary _people." Moriarty sounds . . . exhausted, so exhausted, and I involuntarily sympathize. _I've been thinking the exact same thing._

_ We are alike, aren't we? _

"And it turns out _you're _ordinary, just like the rest of them!" Moriarty puts his face in his hand again, and I watch him cooly.

And then suddenly his face changes, becoming playful—like a little boy's—rather than a tired old man's, so quickly it's like he switched personalities entirely. "Oh, well . . ."

He leaps up and starts circling me, and I have to fight to not track his moments. His voice has changed again, into a deep, brooding tone, as he says, "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real?"

I can hear the joviality in his voice. "Did I nearly get ya?"

_No. Never. I could never forget what you did to John, or Molly, or what your goons did to Mrs. Hudson, or the way you antagonized Lestrade and his police force. Never. I will never forget. _

"Richard Brook," I say, a speck of malice darting into my voice, but Moriarty doesn't catch it.

He sounds disappointed, like a young boy who has made a clever reference that no one understands. "Nobody seems to get the joke. But you do." His tone is challenging, goading me, _Do you? Do you really? Come on, Sherlock. Put on a show for Daddy._

"Of course," I humor him. He sounds pleased, very pleased—proud of his prized pupil. "Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Rechinbach," I say, still staring off into that distant, invisible spot, thinking back to that day when I became the Rechinbach Hero, so far away now, when everything was right, everything was happy. "The case that made my name." Some of the aching for that day lingers in my voice before I shove it—quite rudely—out of my mind palace forever.

"Just trying to have some fun," Moriarty jibes nasally, still circling, obviously thinking he's already won. _Ohh, Jim. You should know I'm not going down without a fight._

Suddenly he stops, right in front of me. An arrogant sneer crosses his face, turning his visage dark. "Isn't it funny how love blinds women?" The cocky smirk plastered on him tells me who he's talking about.

_Molly._

"Molly, Molly, Molly, now _she's _a doll," he drawls, and I force myself to stay in one place, motionless, but internally I'm reeling. My blood is pumping full force and for the first time in my life, I want to punch the smile right off his face, I want to get physical, I want to make him hurt.

But I don't. Because if I do, everything is lost. Because if I do—if I give in to my petty, human emotions—he's already won.

"I learned _so _much from her, being "Jim from IT"," Moriarty continues, still circling me, like a hawk intent on its prey, or the vulture, come to scavenge the remains. "So many _secrets. _I learned about John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, but most importantly about you." Suddenly he stops, his face only an inch away from mine, and it takes all my self control not to jerk my head back. "About how you don't even care a wit about her." Moriarty almost winces in sympathetic regret. "Bet you wish you did now. Bet you wish she were there to help you, to pick up the pieces."

He pulls away, and inside I sigh in relief, finally breaking my ice-cold stare into nothingness as he walks to the ledge and peeks over. "Now, shall we finish the game?"

I follow him, looking down at the pavement also, wondering how I'm going to survive this, _if _I'm going to survive this. I resist gulping and step back from the edge. "Yes, of course." _This hurts. _"My suicide." _Why does this hurt so much?_

All my life I've learned to block things out, to only skim the surface of emotions, never delve deep. Pull back and you won't get hurt. Pull back and nothing can touch you.

I never realized that pulling back can hurt, too.

I'm in uncharted waters, treading on unmapped ground. Everything is new and ready to be tested, but that's the thing about fresh ideas—you never know what will fit and what will blow up in your face.

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud,'" Moriarty tells me pompously, and I can tell that in his mind, he's already won.

"Go on," Moriarty encourages, but the excitement has gone out of his voice. He sounds almost—bored, now. I think back to countless hours lounging in the chair at Baker Street, being rude to Mrs. Hudson and annoying John, with the dull, fog-like haze of boredom over me constantly, infuriating me. I would watch John go out and have fun with girlfriends and old friends, and he hardly ever seemed bored.

I was so jealous.

"For me," Moriarty asks. He makes a horrible high-pitched squealing sound as he begs, "Pleeeas—"

I can't control it any longer. I seize him by his collar and haul him over to the edge, him completely in my power, I—with one flick of my hand—able to end his life. It wouldn't be me falling, it would be him, and the splat on the pavement would be the final high note in our dramatic opera.

Time slows down. I shake Moriarty, teasing the "permanent destination" of the fall, and I feel an almost overwhelming sense of achievement when I see something like shock in his eyes.

But I can't. I just can't. No matter how hard I try to release my grip and send him plummeting over the edge, my hands are in fixed fists. And as he dangles over the edge, I can see the fear on his face, and I imagine him falling, twirling down to meet the ground and be lost from the world forever.

But, I just . . . can't.

"You're insane," I spit, somehow managing to put all my hatred, all the venom and malice I've been feeling since the day I met this man—if you can call him that—into those two tiny words.

But Moriarty only blinks. "You're just getting that now?"

I shove him closer, feeling my grip loosen minutely, and I hope and beg that it will slacken completely sometime in the next five seconds.

And Moriarty knows it. "Whoa, whoa, whoa . . ." He stares me down. "Let me give you a little extra incentive," he says, his sportive manner evaporating. "Your friends will die if you don't."

I almost release him in surprise, but I catch myself just in time. _So this is the part I was missing, the last critical piece of the entire spectacular plan._

I don't bother hiding my shock. Moriarty could see it anyway. "John?" I say, fear dripping into my voice, and John's face—his annoyed, exasperated, funny-looking face—appears before my eyes. I think of having to lose that face, and all the jokes, laughter, rectifying, and friendship that goes with it, and I have already decided what I'm going to do.

"Not just John," Moriarty says with a condescending, sadistic smile on his face. "Everyone!" His whisper seems to have a fun, upbeat ring to it, and I am reminded by a wave of anger how much I hate him.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I ask, a terrified quaver to my voice as my annoying, motherly, overprotective—yet so, so strong—landlady comes into view, and I try to imagine Baker Street without her.

England would fall.

"Everyone!" Moriarty revels in his power, and I am helpless in it.

"Lestrade?" I quiver, hoping that somehow good, trusting, DI Lestrade would be spared, but Moriarty's cruel look tells me otherwise. Lestrade comes into frame, sighing and laughing at the same time, as he so often does around me, and I can't bear to think what shambles the police force would fall to without his humble, intelligent ways.

I can't even dare to hope at this point that Molly is still alive. If Moriarty's snipers are watching my friends' every move, than they've seen what she's doing and put an end to it.

And then Moriarty says, "Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims", and I realize what he's missing.

_Three. _He said _three. _Not Molly. Molly's been missed. Molly's been overlooked. Mousy Molly, the insecure pathologist, has been discounted.

_Uh, that's not everyone, Moriarty._

I almost laugh. He's made the most fatal mistake of them all, and I can imagine the glare Molly would give him if she were here now.

But that doesn't discredit the peril my other friends are in now, supplemented by Moriarty's vicious, "There's no stopping them now," ending in a cruel whisper and a hintof a savage smile.

I pull him up violently, staring at the street below, with all the normal people walking to and from their normal days in their exceedingly normal lives.

Moriarty puts his lips next to my ear. "Unless my people see you jump."

It's okay. Everything will be fine, right? Molly will have the landing pad prepared for me, right? _Right?_

But what about the others? John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? Will everything be okay for them? Or will the snipers not be fooled by our charade and shoot my friends—my only friends—anyway?

Moriarty withdraws his face from mine and stands before me, grinning with exhilaration and a bit of heartless sadism. But I'm not looking at him, I'm staring at the ground, at the countless people there, thinking of how happily oblivious they are, thinking with grim imagination my crumpled body, bloody and smashed, on the street, thinking and pleading and hoping that Molly and my homeless network and everything else is perfectly ready and put into place.

Moriarty is beyond pleased, I can tell. "You can have me arrested. You can _torture _me. You can do anything you like with me." Moriarty almost seems to _want _me to do this, just so I will fail. "But nothing's going to stop them from pulling the trigger." He's bordering on gloating, and I feel a wave of fury roll over me. He gets up in my face just to annoy me: "_Unless . . ."_

"Unless I kill myself, complete your story," I finish distantly, still staring at that faraway, distant place so far below. _Where are they? Where is my homeless network? Are they here? Are they coming? Will they get here in time? _Moriarty nods along, agreeing, and gives a dry laugh. "You've got to admit, that's sexier."

"And I die in disgrace," I say darkly, letting my devastation seep into my voice, hoping to convince Moriarty that I've given up hope.

He eats it up. "Of course." He squints at me as though I was a bit slow. "That's the point of this." Moriarty sounds so matter-of-fact, like a human life wasn't worth more than an ant on the ground's, that I almost hate to disappoint him.

Because I can't give up. I won't give up.

I don't want to die.

"Oh," Moriarty articulates, looking over the dizzyingly high edge at the people below, "you've got an audience now." I join him in staring at the street below, and a thrill flies into my heart. I recognize three of the most active participants in my homeless network loitering around down there, looking normal.

My heart starts beating faster. Everything was, slowly but surely, falling into place. Now all I need is the final piece.

John.

Moriarty looks at me, gesturing to the ledge invitingly. "Off you pop," he declares forcefully. When I hesitate, he tilts his head, indicating the protrusion on the roof, ordering, "Go on."

Reluctantly, I step up onto the ledge, looking out at the average, peaceful day in London being average and peaceful.

I can't miss the bold arrogance in his next words, "I told you how this ends." I breathing hard now, partially from anger and loathing towards the man who would be so callous as to endanger my only friends in the world to get to me, and partially from fear.

Fear of the fall.

"Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers." Moriarty sounds almost rueful, almost apologetic, but all overlaid with an off-hand calmness. "I'm certainly not going to do it."

He looks up at me, and I look away from him, not wanting to meet his eye. But I have to text Molly, some way, to let her know which plan to use. "Would you give me . . ." I take a deep breath, trying to act as though all hope was lost, " . . . one moment, please . . ." I swallow, continuing my portrayal, "One moment of privacy. Please?" I can't mask my desperation. If he doesn't look the other way, then Molly won't know when to put the mat out—or if the put the mat out—and I really will die.

I can't distinguish Moriarty's face. He seems . . . disappointed. "Of course."

He walks towards the other end of the roof, and I relax, grateful for the time to think. My mind is racing, whirling, leaping, perhaps faster than it ever has before, and every word that Moriarty has spoken during our encounter flashes through my mind—_"Our problem, the final problem . . . Because I've beaten you . . . In the end, it was easy . . . Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims . . . You're death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers . . . I'm certainly not going to do it . . ._

Wait.

I freeze, and my brain rewinds, and Moriarty's annoying drawl replays in my mind, "I'm certainly not going to do it."

I'm certainly not going to do it.

_I'm certainly not going to do it._

And I can't help it—I start smiling. Then grinning. Then giggling. Then full-blown laughter, the hardest I've laughed in weeks, chortles and chuckles and everything else.

Moriarty whirls around, his face beset in anger. "What? What is it?" he demands. When I keep laughing, he screeches, "What did I miss?!"

Gracefully, I step off the edge. I won't have to fall, won't have to go through with this whole hoax, won't have to be dead. Because if I can get Moriarty to somehow reveal the OFF button to his whole scheme—which I have no doubt that I can—I can call off his killers, have him arrested, and be re-welcomed—with many elaborate apologies—as the city's very own Reinchinbach Hero.

"You're not going to do it?" I ask challengingly, mocking him in undertone. _Come on, Jim. That the best you can do? _

Moriarty blinks, confused, and I can just detect a _hint _of anger at himself. "So the killers _can _be called off, then, there's a recall code or a word or a _number_." I hiss, taunting him, mocking him with a condescending tone just as he did to me mere seconds ago.

I circle him, mirroring his previous actions, feeling . . . good. Feeling right. Feeling on top of the world again, winning, beating him. "I don't have to die . . ." I gloat, and I'm so happy that my words come out singsong, "If I've got you!"

"Oh . . ." Moriarty struggles to recover quickly, trying to keep his dignity in tact. "You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can make me do that?" His tone is doubtful, but I know that he knows that I can do it.

"Yes," I confirm, and half-whisper knowingly, "So do you."

I like this. This is fun, throwing his words, his clever tauntings, back in his face.

He tries to drawl it, tries to make it seems obvious, like I was kidding myself, but I can see through it: "Sherlock, your big brother and _all _the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do."

I sweep in front of him, getting up-close and personal with his face, "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" _I am not Mycroft. Sure, he's not exactly ordinary, but I am _not _Mycroft._

I stare him down, looking right _through _his eyes. "I am you," I say simply. _It's true. Together, we make up the elite level of non-ordinariness that makes life so easy and so impossible all at once. _"Prepared to do anything. Prepared to _burn. _Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do.

"You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you."

But Moriarty is shaking his head, half-sadly. "Nah." He shakes his head more. "You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels."

_Oh, Jim. _"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," I say, thinking of the true angels—John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. _Molly. _"But don't think for one _second _that I am one of them."

No. I am not an angel. No. I am far from it. I am the Devil reincarnated in human form, a demon from Hell disguised as a saint. No. No, I am not an angel.

And in that moment, Moriarty sees it. He sees the depths of my non-angelic soul, the secret darkness I so often hide. "No," he says, a sense of wonderment in his voice, "You're not." He blinks rapidly, as if he can't believe what he's seeing, smiling oddly, as if he has been thrust into the light after living a life in darkness but is not quite sure if he likes it yet. "I see." It's like we're communicating, somehow, without speaking, in a way ordinary people, _angels, _can't, him reading my mind and gasping at what's in there. "You're not ordinary. No." He nods and smiles more, and my heart starts pounding, anticipating his next words. "You're meeee." He draws out the "ee" in "me", savoring the word, and something in my stomach turns. I don't—I don't want to be him. I don't want to be Moriarty, the unordinary, un-angelic monster. For the first time in my life, I wish I was ordinary. I wish I was normal, average, bland, unmemorable. I wish—I wish—

But after thirty long years, I should know by now. Wishes never come true.

Moriarty laughs. "You're me!" he repeats gleefully, giggling in that odd way of his. "Thank you," he enunciates, "Sherlock Holmes." He offers his hand for a shake and I stare at it a moment before grasping it lightly, his long, thin fingers smooth and cold in my hand. He squeezes my hand, hard, and I resist the urge to yank it back and wipe the shake off.

"Thank you," he repeats again, nodding some more, starting to resemble a bobblehead. "_Bless you." _

I narrow my eyes, staring at him, and he swallows, as if accepting a difficult fact. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He nods, acknowledging his mistake, and I tense, sensing a big, monumental move coming in our elaborate game of chess.

He grins. "Well, good luck with that." And suddenly, just like that, he opens his mouth wide, and his left hand delves deep into his pocket and he pulls out a gun—a gun!—and brings it up to the inside of his mouth—

"No!" I gasp, hurtling myself backwards, away from the insane man, and Moriarty—pulls the trigger.

He slumps to the ground, mouth still open, with that same crazy, happy look on his face, and I know why it's there.

_Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do._

Moriarty died thinking he won. And, in a way, he did.

But I'm not ready to give up yet.

I breathing hard, staring at the blood trickling swiftly from the back of the mastermind's head. I groan and look away, sickened, and I struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

Panting, I bring my hands to the top of my head, like a jogger recovering from a hard run. Swallowing my fear, I step up onto the ledge, knowing what is going to happen, knowing what I'm going to put John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade through.

I see a taxi pull to a stop, and I know without seeing him get out that it's John, recently back from the Mrs.-Hudson-has-been-shot red herring. Now is as good a time as ever.

I get out my mobile and quickly text Molly, "LAZARUS," meaning that Moriarty is dead and I'm going to jump. She responds immediately with, "LAZARUS IS A GO," but I can tell, even through text, that Moriarty's demise relieves her—the fact that Moriarty will never bother her again.

I swallow and prepare myself. I open my Contacts—with its six entries, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Moriarty—and hit John's scowling face, a picture I took just to annoy him. As the phone dials, I think back to that day, when I was sick of him teasing me with The Hat, so I decided to tease him with his own mad face.

It was a good day.

I can hear his mobile ringing all the way up from here as he gets out of the cab, walking briskly. "Hello?"

It kills me to hear his voice. "John," is all I can say.

He's running now. "Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"No, no, turn around and walk back to where you came."

John slows, but doesn't stop. "No, I'm coming in."

"_Just do as I ask_," I manage, breaking off in the end with an almost-sob. It's getting quite difficult to talk; I have this uncomfortable knot in the base of my throat, and I'm not quite sure why it's there. "Please," I beg, and he immediately turns around. "Where?" he asks, and my heart warms for him, doing what I want—no, what I _need, _and he can tell that I _need_ it—without question, because he trusts me.

John walks by the ambulance building, and I tell him, "Stop there." Perfect. Perfect position. Everything is going perfectly. John is never going to find out.

If everything's going so perfectly, then why do I feel so shitty?

"Sherlock," he complains, his voice a mix of testily and quizzingly, knowing I can see him. "Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

He looks up and sees me, and even though I can't see his face very well, I can hear the fear come over him as he says, "Oh, God."

I grapple with my feelings, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I—I can't come down, so we'll—we'll just have to do it like this."

John's breathing rapidly. "What's going on?" He sounds like he's going to be sick.

"An apology," I say, staring at him, willing him, begging him not to believe it. It hurts, it hurts deep down inside, the words that I'm saying, but—just maybe—maybe if he believes that I'm a liar, it won't hurt _him _so much.

I pause, controlling my emotions, as I always must do, and say simply, "It's all true."

He actually takes a step back. "What?" he demands, and it almost sounds like he's mad.

Good old John.

"Everything they said about me," I tell him, each word stabbing myself in the heart, "I invented Moriarty." I look back at the cold, dead corpse of James Moriarty, bloody and disfigured, the smile relaxed off his face, and every part of my being rebels from the words that I'm saying.

I never lie. I'm brutally honest. Sherlock Holmes, frank to a fault.

_It hurts._

John looks at me with wide eyes, stumped with disbelief. He shakes his head, and I can tell he's searching, searching for an explanation. "Why are you saying this?"

Clever John. Thinking that someone is forcing my words. If only it were that simple. _If only._

_ I'm saying it for you, John._

The next words, the ones I know I have to say, are the hardest, and I have to force them out of my unwilling mouth. "I'm a fake."

John blinks rapidly, and I can hear it in his voice. "_Stop it, Sherlock. _Stop _it." _"Sherlock," is all he says.

"The newspapers were right all along," I manage, and this time the sob does break through to my voice, and the tears well in my eyes. "I want you to tell Lestrade." I close my eyes, thinking of Inspector Lestrade's face when he hears—disbelieving, angry, sorrowful, "I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson." I can't imagine how my poor, trusting old landlady would react. Probably with a lot of blubbering and tea, and I feel a pang just thinking about it. "And Molly." My voice breaks on Molly's name, and I make myself go on, having the confidence that she, at least, will know I'm alive and brilliant. "In fact, tell anyone that will listen to you." I'm physically shaking. "That I created Moriarty—for my own purposes."

John shakes his head quickly, fervently denying my accusations. _Loyal to a fault. _And I can hear it in his voice—a hard anger, only suppressed by tears of his own. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister."

I laugh dryly. "Nobody could be that clever."

_Because I'm not anybody. I'm not ordinary. I'm not an angel._

His voice is hard and determined. "You could."

I let out another laugh. John looks up at me disbelievingly, and I know now that he's not buying this one bit.

I search for an explanation _How could I have known, how could I have known, _and I choose the first one that comes to mind: "I researched you." It's flimsy—no one but John and his sister knew about her problem, and if I could've known that I was going to meet him, and he was going to be my roommate, before the fact, I would be just as brilliant as I was denying I was.

The papers have no idea how stupid their exorbitant claims are. If anyone could pretend to be a genius for that long, and fool that many people—than they really _are _a genius.

But I continue with my shoddy explanation anyway. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you."

John's face twists into one of anger—anger, and terrible pain, as if it were physical and he was barely holding back from screaming in agony.

An open man would mirror his expression. A free man would take it all back and beg John to forgive him. But I am a beaten man. So I sniff, swallow, hold back my tears, and say, "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."

His eyes are closed, and he's shaking his head sharply. "No, alright, stop it now." He makes to move forward, but I dictate quickly, my voice dangerously unstable, "No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

I put my hand out, pointing, and John responds with his own hand up, a surrendering, cooperative gesture. "Alright." He walks backwards, a fearful undertone to his voice, like he has just now realized that I am on top of a roof, fifteen stories above the ground

Without knowing it, I'm breathing hard, and I see out of the corner of my eye a couple of my homeless network running with a giant blue mat, and I know Molly has done her job. All I have to do is do mine, and I have the hardest one. "Keep your eyes fixed on me!" I order John, my heart rate accelerating. My voice breaks again. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" John asks, but underneath, I can tell that somewhere, deep down, he knows.

"This phone call, it's, um . . . it's my note." My voice darkens slightly. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" John shakes his head again, denying it again, but I can tell he knows. Despite all the times I insisted he was an idiot, or was blind to observing, John is a smart man. He knows what I'm talking about.

"Leave a note when?" he asks, and the way his voice breaks, I know if I have to listen to him much more I won't be able to go through with it.

The mat is in place. Everything is ready. All there's left to do is jump.

I have to do this. I have to. _I have to._

"Goodbye, John."

"No!" I hear him beg, "Don't—"

I look down at him, at his imploring eyes, at his face a mask of fear and pain, and I want to yell, want to scream it out, _"I'm sorry!" _

_I'm sorry, John. So, so sorry. But I have to. I have to. I have to save your life._

I end the call, then toss the phone on the ground, cracking the screen. I won't need it anymore.

"No—Sherlock!" I hear John's yell, desperate and pleading, all the way from up here, and it cuts through me, a knife shattering the ice around me and letting the pain flood in. And it does, pain rushing and swirling all around, sweeping away everything in its path and reeking havoc wherever it can, drowning all reason and rationality and destroying all my resolve.

And I would step down from this ledge, turn away, and run down to John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, if not for one thing.

Three evil assassins, with three evil guns and three evil bullets, directed at three angels' hearts.

So I do what I have to do.

And right before I do it, I look back at Moriarty, lying dead on the ground, and give him a final half-smile, as a sort of acknowledgement, a salute.

Because he was right. In the end, he did burn my heart out.

And I fall.

She gazes unblinkingly at the bright, blinding sun, letting the pleasant warmth soak into her skin, her hair shining in the blazing yellow light. She looks so peaceful I almost hate to disturb her, but I walk up anyway.

I say nothing, but let her turn around to me. When she sees me, she jumps, holding her hand to her heart, just like she did a lifetime ago—_literally_. "Sherlock! You startled me."

I swallow, trying to be polite. "Sorry." There. That, that was right. That was good.

Molly smiles vaguely, but I can tell there's something else on her mind. She stares out the bright Bart's window, looking down at the street, where they have already washed away the spoils of war. I can tell she's remembering what I am—my jump, John's scream, _all _the blood.

I turn away. I do not want to remember the heartbroken way John knelt over me, taking my pulse, desperately hoping for something, but finding nothing.

I can't look at Molly. I can't see the utter devastation on her face.

I didn't think I meant that much to John.

I always knew he liked me. Well, he liked correcting me and apologizing for me and applauding at my deductions. He has always been _my _best friend, and I know that I—no matter how fervently I deny it—wouldn't be able to function if something were to happen to him. I would simply just shut down_. _I wouldn't be able to take it.

I didn't know that John couldn't take it, either.

But the way he looked at me, the way he wailed when he thought I was dead—it kind of made me think that maybe I am _his _best friend.

I mean, I _was._

"Why did we do this?" Molly whispers hoarsely, and I turn to her. Her face in a mask of horror and sorrow. "Why did we do this to John?"

For some unfathomable reason, I grab her shoulders. She looks down at my hands, as if very confused as to why they're there, but I don't release, not yet. I feel her warmth and her slight tension beneath my hands, and I _like _this, I _like _touching her, I _like _feeling her, Molly.

I've never touched anyone if I could help it before.

I stare into her eyes, seeing much of my terror, and desolation, and regret mirrored in there. "Because if we didn't, he would die," I tell her, and release her shoulders, turning away.

I hear a gasp behind me. "What?" She walks in front of my face, forcing me to acknowledge her, just as she did so, so long ago, when I first laid eyes on the ostensibly mousy, average—but, in truth,extraordinary—pathologist.

She narrows her eyes at me. "Why would he die?"

I swallow. "Moriarty."

She looks—angry. "Moriarty's dead."

_Is he, though? _"He had snipers. A gun, or each of them." Molly's face softens to my words. "On each of what?"

I look down, not meeting her eyes. "On each of my friends."

I steal a glance at her face. She bites her lip, looking dejected. "I thought I was one of your friends."

I turn away, retreating back into my straight-forward, matter-of-fact manner and flip my coat as I say, "Not according to Moriarty. We tricked him." I face her now, a grim smile on my face. "You were my secret weapon."

I turn back to walk through the double doors and into the newest chapter of my life, but I know without looking that Molly is smiling.

**Author's Note:**** Yes, guys, I know I added and cut out some things discussed on the rooftop.**

**Know that I love you guys, because I had to watch The Phone Call about twenty times to complete that scene (ugh! Too sad!).**

**Please review! (OMG, so excited. Next chapter is THE chapter. You know. The one you've all been waiting for. And me, too. Can't wait!) **

**I have been having slow updates last couple of chapters . . . sorry! Thanks for patience! Next chapter will come really soon, I promise!**

**Review, review, review, review, review (or follow/favorite. I'm okay with both :D). **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:**** Ha! See! I told you I could do it! I updated in only ****3**** days! Yes!**

** Thank you, Pheobe Arocis, the-art-of-escape, AnnaCromwell, Zerimaro, Wheezzy8, and Icecat62 for favoriting, following, or reviewing **_**On Murder, False Deaths, and a Good, Old-Fashioned Love Affair. **_**It really means a lot to hear from you guys.**

**Icecat62: Thank you! It was, quite honestly, really hard to get through (I had to pause every few minutes and calm down my feels). I hope to show you how Molly was reacting (or, at least, my interpretation of how Molly was reacting) in this chapter.**

**Wheezzy8: Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it.**

**I would like to thank The Science of Deduction-SH for following AND favoriting me and for posting a serious fantastic review. You're so sweet! And after reading your review, I actually really agree with you. Moriarty wasn't afraid of dying—he proved that when he killed himself (well, I say 'killed', but I mean "killed". We all know what happens at the end of Season 3!). But I think that what he **_**was **_**afraid of was that Sherlock would be the one to kill him. Moriarty's main purpose in life was to have **_**control**_**, and when Sherlock almost killed him, for a second—just a second—he didn't have control, and that's what scared him. Of course, he quickly regained control, and he had control when he "took" (I put that in quotes) his own life, but for an instant, Sherlock showed him a world where he didn't have power, and he didn't like it. But you're right, and I definitely should've elaborated on what I meant by that. So thank you very much for your analytical insight!**

**Wow . . . that author's note was way too long. My apologies.**

Chapter Nine

_Molly_

I sigh and finish twisting the braid to form a decorative half-bun on the top of my head. I frown at my reflection in the full-length. I look _way _too much like a widow. All I need is the black veil covering my face, and I'll be good to go.

My black dress is simple, nothing like the one I wore to Christmas so long ago. Looking back on it, that was a desperate and juvenile move, but today I refuse to look back. Sherlock's funeral is supposed to be a time to remember the past, all the "good" times, but I can't. I just can't. Because while the best times together are behind them for John and others, our time is just beginning, and I don't want to dwell on the misfortunes in our history.

There's a ring at the doorbell, and I take one final glance in the mirror before turning to open the door.

John's waiting for me, his expression fixed as one of extreme sorrow, and I just melt. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me back, and I hear a single sob escape. "I know, I know," I murmur, and I ache for my part in making him feel so wretched.

We release and head to the waiting taxi. John is silent the entire ride, staring moodily out the window, and I wonder what he prepared for the eulogy.

When we arrive, we're one of the first there. The funeral parlor is still setting up, and I realize with a pang that there are far too many chairs. I try to keep my voice down as I tell the worker to take some down, but John hears me anyway, and I can tell the pang resonates through him too.

I spot Mycroft over by the front, talking stiffly with two people who must be Sherlock's mother and father. The stark contrast between Mycroft and his parents is startling—he is cold and reserved, while they are friendly and candid—Mrs. Holmes is openly weeping, while Mr. Holmes has his arm around her, shaking his head sadly.

Lestrade and Anderson and a couple of other officers who didn't absolutely despise Sherlock are here, talking in hushed tones. Anderson still looks shocked—and is obviously horrified at his role in driving Sherlock to "suicide"—but Donovan is absent. I feel the rage quell up in me, but it's not like I was expecting anything more.

When the services start, the preacher gives the default speech. "Sherlock was always kind and thoughtful towards others" "Sherlock will live in the hearts of many". It's almost laughable. Here we are, sitting on folding chairs in the wet grass, listening to some random person who didn't even know Sherlock drone on about how nice and sweet he always was.

I can't help it. I giggle.

I instantly regret it, covering my mouth with my hand to try to quell the coming chuckles, but a few escape anyway. I take a breath and try to calm down. Here we are, trying to rewrite Sherlock into a good person when he isn't even dead yet.

I expect John, sitting beside me, to get angry at me for ruining the ceremony, but he just looks over at me with just a flicker of a melancholy smile. Seeing that tiny half-smile is enough to sober me, and all my joviality vanishes instantly.

The preacher glares at me, and I look down, embarrassed, and wait for him to go on. Voice flat, he asks, "Would anyone like to say a few words?"

John slowly rises and walks over to the podium. As he passes by me, I give him a comforting pat on the back, trying to lend all the support I can.

When he reaches the podium, he takes out a crumpled, hand-written note and clears his throat. For a while he just stands there, staring at it, before looking up—and perhaps suddenly realizing we're all here—and starting abruptly.

"Sherlock," he says quietly, "was an asshole."

There are starts all over as the police force shifts uncomfortably, awkward at the bluntness of the statement at the man's own funeral. I have to clamp my hands—hard—over my mouth to keep from snickering, and suddenly I hear a slight, muffled giggle.

I start, sitting up straight, ears pricked and on full alert. I narrow my eyes, sweeping the surroundings, searching for him. Because I know that laugh.

God dammit, Sherlock. Why did you have to come to your own funeral?

John apparently doesn't notice. He clears his throat and goes on.

"When I first met Sherlock, I was looking for a flatmate. What I got was so much more. He gave me—" John suddenly stops, brushes away a fat tear, sniffs forcefully—as though angry at the tear—and stubbornly continues.

"He gave me adventure. He gave me purpose. He gave me life where I had none. Before I met Sherlock, I was sullen, depressed, and suffering from a psychosomatic leg injury. _One day _after living with Sherlock, I found my entire life turned around." Here he pauses, swallows vigorously, and says, with a little ironic humor, "Well, I guess I'm back where I started."

I take a breath, and bite my lip violently to stop the tears from falling. It's torture to see John like this, and I want to scream at the top of my lungs, _"No! You have it wrong! He's still alive!"_

John takes a shaky breath, and tries to be causal, but I can tell he's on the verge of a burst of tears. "When he . . ." He trails off, unable to say the word, but he looks up at us, making eye contact, and we all understand what forbidden word he means— " . . . he called me. He said . . ." A sob escapes, and John buries his face in his hands, and we all sit uncomfortably, wanting to comfort him but unable to.

Suddenly he looks up, gazing at all of us, right in the eye, unembarrassed at the tears streaming down his face. "He said he was a fraud. He said to tell everybody that he was a fake." John stares at each one of us, daring us to challenge him. "But the fact that he told me to tell you that he was sham is proof enough that he _isn't_."

John flings out his arms, sobs choking his suddenly passionate voice. "You saw what he could do! You saw him find impossible truths out of nowhere! Can you honestly tell me that there's an explanation for how he knew _every _single one of those?!"

John's moment of energy flares down, and he swallows his tears, not bothering to wipe his face. He sniffs. "A wise man once told me that once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable, _must be the truth." The way he's staring at each one of us, looking straight into our eyes, makes me look away, uncomfortable.

He just shakes his head. "Look at the facts, people."

John gathers his paper, wipes a tear, and looks long and hard at Sherlock's coffin. He places a hand on the smooth surface, murmurs some words I can't quite catch, and makes his way down the small aisle.

He sits back next to me, and I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looks quite spent, like he just ran fifty miles through the desert with no water.

Mycroft walks up to the podium formally, and takes out a clean, typed piece of paper. He looks like he's giving a presentation to the prime minister rather than a eulogy for his dead brother.

"When Sherlock was five," he starts, his voice monotonous and his expression completely devoid of emotion, "he always wanted to play games with me. Well," he amends, "one game, really. He called it Murder."

There's some nervous shuffling as the audience considers a five-year-old enjoying something so morbid.

"We would take turns, er . . ." Mycroft looks awkward in his own graceful way. "_Killing _someone. It was usually the mean boys at school who teased Sherlock." He smiles cooly, as if remembering the day.

Suddenly he looks down at his paper, as if startled by his words. Mycroft licks his lips nervously, clears his throat and continues. "When it was my turn to kill, Sherlock was always able to find out _who _I killed, _why _I killed them, and _how _I killed them. And now he does it today, for a living. It is . . ." Mycroft stops, an expression of sickened sorrow on his face, and he takes a deep breath before saying, "it _was _truly phenomenal."

He pauses and clears his throat again, looking bewildered and taken off guard. It looked like he hadn't quite grasped that Sherlock was dead. All his formalities from before were gone, and I could see the raw Mycroft—scared. Confused. Heartbroken.

He looks down at his paper, but it's like he can't read it. He looks out at the audience, all of us waiting patiently, and he stutters. "And—and—uh . . ."

It's painful to see Sherlock's bold brother this way, and astonishing, though I must admit, it's nice to finally see proof that the two men have some link that's more than genes.

Mycroft takes a breath and says, "My brother was wasted on petty detective work and sitting around the house _bored_. He could've—he could've—" He breaks off, turning away from the group, and I hear the unmistakeable sound of sobbing.

My heart breaks for him. I can't imagine how it must feel—I can't imagine how _anything _must feel, to a man like Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft composes himself and turns back around, but—unlike John—he does his best to pretend like he isn't crying. "Sherlock Holmes could've been practically the head of the government!" Mycroft's voice breaks, and he looks away. "And instead he chose to be a detective. He chose to catch rapists, and murderers, and arsonists. He chose to help people." Mycroft's voice dips, and he looks down. "That's more than I can say for myself."

My eyes follow the government official as he makes his way down from the podium and returns to his seat a couple rows away from me. He has his face in his hands and isn't speaking to anybody.

The preacher returns to the podium. "Is there anyone else?"

No one moves. Mrs. Hudson is quietly sobbing into her handkerchief, and Lestrade looks stunned, as though he, like Mycroft, just now realized that Sherlock is dead.

Without planning it, my legs get up and start moving down the aisle. Before I know it, I'm standing in front of the podium, facing the entire crowd.

A rush of nervousness comes over me. I don't get stage fright—I was an actress—but I have absolutely no idea what to say. I know that Sherlock is alive, so I basically have to lie to all these people, all my friends, who are hanging on to my words for something to remember him by.

I survey them anxiously. "Um, hullo," I start out awkwardly, "I'm—I'm Molly." I giggle nervously, embarrassed that I just introduced myself to my friends and coworkers. "Well, you already know that. Um . . ." I bite my lip, searching for words, and staring at all the sad faces and sorrowful, mournful eyes, I just have to blurt out, "Sherlock isn't dead."

Oh, God.

There's some whispering and uncomfortable rustlings, and I hasten to correct, "At least not to me."

It feels like everyone in the audience lets out a sigh, and the tension dissipates, calming me enough to say, "He would always come by Barts and to use the microscope or just be somewhere private, and we would have these—these _moments_." I almost let myself go, dissolve into the times when Sherlock and I would work side by side, not chatting, sometimes not even saying a single word to each other, but every time, I knew that we were sharing something. Not something as tangible as an actual conversation, but just a little while, alone together, being ourselves completely and wholly.

I shake my head to clear the memory, and say, "It was like we were in our own little world. And that is—was—" I chew on the inside of my lip, forcing myself to refer to him in the past tense, "And that was why Sherlock was important to me. Even to his very last day, I could always count on those moments. They were . . ." I trail off, searching for some way to describe the warm, happy feeling that filled me when we were around each other. "Peaceful," I decide, and looking out at the small group, staring up at me with solemn faces, I know they don't understand what I mean at all.

But maybe that's okay. Maybe it's okay that Sherlock and I have our own little something, something that no one else has. Maybe it's okay that we are the only two people in the world who have this, and we're the only two people who would understand.

I offer a gloomy smile that everyone knows is fake. "Thank you," I say, and step down.

I step out of the reception to a quieter part of the funeral parlor, glad to be alone for a second. I fan myself with my hand, sweaty, and allow my mind to wander, for a minute, to where Sherlock could possibly be right now.

Without warning, a door slams behind me, and I jump, whipping around to see who could've possibly interrupted my minute of solitude.

It's John.

"Oh, hi, John," I say amicably, but he just stands there staring at me. "You saw him on the day he died."

"Oh—um . . ." I stutter, cursing myself. Why, oh _why _did I say that? "What's your point?"

"Do you know something?" he asks, his eyebrows curved into an expression of the utmost hope, "about the way he died? Was anyone . . . forcing his words, or something?"

My heart pounds. If John thinks there's something not quite right, a crack in the smooth glass story we've managed to create—he might decide to look through. And if he does, it will shatter around us.

I shake my head, forcing it to be slow and solemn. It's been a while since I last had a serious acting challenge and I'm almost eager to put my skills to the test. "No, John," I say sadly, "I wish I knew anything, but . . ." I look down, and make like I'm fighting tears, "but there's nothing there." I shake my head again, biting my lip noticeably. "He committed suicide, John. I guess he couldn't stand the thought of being a fraud. But listen to me," I step in closer, my voice lowering and my eyes setting. "No one, not even Sherlock himself, could convince me that he was a fake."

A small smile brightens John's face, an _I-knew-I-could-count-on-you _smile, which makes me feel all the worse for deceiving him.

He doesn't ask the obvious question, the _"Then why did he tell us he was a fraud?" _, and I think I know why.

Because if he asks the question, then he'll have to face the answer.

I return his smile, and he says, "I think I'll go back."

"Okay," I say, and I hold the smile as I watch him leave. The second the door closes, I let the smile drop and I relax, sighing.

Suddenly, laughter breaks through the silence, and I whirl around to see—"Sherlock!" I say, eyes wide, and before I know what I'm doing, I rush to embrace him. He stiffens at first, but then relaxes and hugs me back. When we pull away there's a smile on his face. "I didn't know you were that good of an actor, Molly."

I feel my cheeks warm. "Oh, well, you know that I did some acting back in school." I look down, not wanting to mention the disastrous Irene Adler incident.

He just nods, and when I look up, he's giving me a sideways glance. "Nice eulogy."

I grin triumphantly, proud to have correctly identified his laugh. "I was right! I did hear you!"

He nods, walking over to the window, looking out into the graveyard, where some men are slowly lowering his empty coffin into the ground. "I was in the coffin."

I laugh out loud, then put my hand over my lips, worried that someone might hear. "Isn't it a little risky to come back here? Someone could see you."

Sherlock nods, but replies—rather sheepishly—"I know, but . . . I've always wanted to go to my own funeral."

I laugh again, softer this time. "Sounds like you."

He looks at me curiously. "Sounds like me," he repeats thoughtfully, turning away from the window and walking back over to where I'm standing.

"So where are you going now?" I ask, half dreading his answer.

He shrugs. "Anywhere Moriarty's network leads me. I have to disable it completely before it's safe to return here."

Excitement besets itself on my face. "So you are coming back?"

Sherlock nods. "In ten, maybe twenty years, probably."

My heart sinks. "Oh," I say quietly, not able to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

And suddenly, as if being forced toward me by some inexplicable desire, Sherlock steps in, right next to my body. My pulse quickens and my breath catches; we're inches apart, and I resist the urge to lay my head on his breast and hug him for all he's worth, hug him for being alive, and here, and for trusting me.

I can feel his warm inhale and exhale, a familiar constant in this chaotic world, and I look up, adding my breath to the mix. My eyes reflect my confusion and yet a strange wonderment, and he gazes down at me, his lips parted, his eyes full of desire and a gentleness I didn't know I could find in Sherlock. I open my mouth to ask—

—and he wraps his arms around me and his mouth meets mine, and he's kissing me, and I'm kissing back, and it's like my mind has taken flight and is soaring above the clouds, and all I can feel is Sherlock, and his intense warmth, and the taste of his lips on mine.

And I pull back. My eyes are wide. "Sherlock," I say, and somehow it comes out all wrong, sounding critical and disapproving. His face, previously so unguarded and full of light, falls to a dark, sheltered expression, and he looks away. "I'm sorry," he says softly, eyes cast downward, almost ashamed, and my mind screams, _No, no, no. _"I shouldn't have done that."

"Don't be," I plead, and step forward and kiss him, running my hands through that gorgeous dark chocolate hair. He flinches in surprise, almost stepping out of the kiss, but I determinedly hang on. He recovers and presses forward, and I feel my back hit the wall. My hands cup the back of his head, pulling him closer still, and he absorbs it, coming even stronger. I rest my arms around his neck and let myself disappear into the kiss, feeling a feeling stronger than one could ever imagine. I gasp and sigh a contented sigh and he pulls away slightly, so that our faces are centimeters apart. He caresses my cheek with his thumb, his eyebrows arched faintly in the most adorable way, his eyes betraying intense joy, and I sigh again, kissing him for all I'm worth, kissing him like there's no tomorrow.

_Bang. _The door opens and we whirl to see a very surprised Mycroft, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. "Sherlock!" he hisses, stumbling back in shock, and he steps away from us, but he recovers quickly. "I'll be out in the hall," he mutters, and walks briskly out, eyes fixed on the ground.

And then it's over. Sherlock pulls away and moves to the door. He walks through it, but at the last second catches it with his hand and smiles one of his rare, sly, Sherlock-smiles.

"Bye, Molly," he says before walking out of the room—and my life—the door slamming shut behind him, ringing with an awful sense of finality.

**Author's Note:**** And we have a kiss, folks!**

**Tell me how I did on the kissing scene . . . I'm very curious if I made it work or not.**

**Love you guys. Next chapter is going to be pretty short, so be prepared.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Many thanks to Icecat62, kattybaggins, Monirosez, and The Science of Deduction—SH for reviewing, favoriting, or following my story!**

**Icecat62: Thanks. I wanted Mycroft to have a little **_**Oh-my-gosh-Sherlock-is-dead-and-for-some-reasons-I'm-having-emotions **_**moment before he (inevitably) found out Sherlock was alive. And I know, 10-20 years is way too long, but I needed Molly to be surprised when (spoiler!) Sherlock comes back after only two years (technically not a spoiler! We all saw Season 3! NOT a spoiler!). **

**katybaggins: Thank you! Someone understands me! :D Sherlock is soooooooooooo not a sociopath (no matter how hard he tries to deny it!) because he truly cares for John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and (above all! xD) Molly, and he has dedicated his life to catching killers and protecting people.**

**The Science of Deduction—SH: Haha to your not-so-quiet reactions (believe me, I've done that MANY times!). It makes me happy to know that my writing can produce such—er—energetic reactions! :D I wasn't planning on writing the Serbian scene, but after I finish this story I'll write a one-shot of it, since you requested it. It certainly is a fabulous scene.**

**Wow! Another long author's note! Sorry!**

Chapter Ten:

_Sherlock_

I bang out of the funeral home and into the hallway. Mycroft is pacing rapidly, muttering to himself, but looks up when I come out.

I check for others, cursing myself for giving into silly sentiment and coming here today. What was I thinking, attending my own funeral?! And now I have to face the consequences, in the form of Mycroft. _Stupid, stupid stupid! _I thought I was above sentiment!

Sentiment . . . _Molly_ . . .

A warm feeling fills me as I recall the events of the last few minutes. Soft, warm hands . . . smooth, gentle lips . . . prepossessing fingers running through my hair . . .

I close my eyes and navigate my mind palace, traveling deep inside of it, trying to find a place where I can store this memory, hide it away, conceal it, keep it out of sight and out of mind, until I need it so badly I have to give in to _sentiment, _that vile word, and surrender to the bold, brave pathologist, and her silky hair, and the feel of her lips on mine.

I open my eyes to find Mycroft staring at me with a peculiar mix of shock, elation, and indignation on his face. "I should've known," he says simply.

I start to laugh and say, "Yes, you should've," but his expression stops the words in my mouth. It is—sorrow, tinged with remorse.

I clear my throat instead. "I heard what you said," I tell him, remembering my brother's choked words, _"He chose to help people . . . and that's more than I could say for myself." _

All my life I have viewed my brother as the adversary, the opposition—for Mummy's love, for the best grades in school, for deducing games and battles of wit—the two of us, always on opposite ends of the spectrum, never meeting in the middle, always cold and devoid of love for one another. As quiet as we may have been as children, there was always an intense war raging in the Holmes home, a war fought not with guns or cannons but with cold looks and clever remarks and the pride, so unevenly distributed, of our parents.

And then it was who got the best job, and who was working for the government, and who was making all the money, war, war, war, always war, always competing for our parents' love and admiration. And in the end, it was too much. Mycroft had graduated—I was still in school. Mycroft was bringing home all the money—I was bringing home frequent suspension slips for "social misconduct at the lunch table". It was too much. I had lost.

Mycroft had won.

So I turned to drugs, when there was nothing left for me. I had no friends, no passion, and now no parents. And Mummy's heartbroken wail and Daddy's stern words couldn't make me feel _right, _make me feel _wanted, _like the drugs did.

I've never forgiven Mycroft for that.

My face is cast downward, determined not to look him in the eye as I contemplate the sound of my brother, my unloving, uncaring brother, weep for me and his heartwarming eulogy. "It was—it was—"

I try to get the words out—_sweet, beautiful, touching—_but they won't come. "Interesting," I decide, wishing I could say more.

Mycroft looks annoyed, and very embarrassed. "Showing so familial attachment isn't unnatural, Sherlock," he tells me, and I snort.

He swallows uncomfortably, and I can deduce by the way he's awkwardly fidgeting and the suddenly tangible tension in the air that's he's going to say something monumental.

But I can't listen to it. I turn to him and throw my arms around him in what's got the be the world's most uncomfortable, dispassionate, and awkward hug ever known to mankind.

I pull back as quickly as I gripped him, looking anywhere but him. _Wow. Two major acts of sentiment in one day, both originating from me? There must've been something in the tea._

We stand in silence for a minute, staring out the window at the dirt being dumped on my coffin, now in the ground, before Mycroft asks abruptly, "Do you love her?"

I nearly jump, startled at the stark change in conversation, but I can't stop the image of Molly, eyes wide and hopeful, from flickering in front of my eyes.

"Love . . ." I muse, trying the word out in my mouth, enjoying the way it rolled off my tongue. "Do I love Molly Hooper . . ."

Mycroft is staring at me, waiting for an answer in quiet anticipation.

I sigh, relenting. "Yes," I say, "I love her."

There's quiet for a minute, a moment of terrified waiting, knowing the magnitude of the words I've said, unable—and unwilling—to take them back, before I let out another sigh, long and deep. "But she could never love me back."

Mycroft just looks at me, gazing quietly, and I look past him, seeing golden-brown hair and tasting warm, soft lips. "She lives in a world of ordinary people, with ordinary lives, doing ordinary things." I look down, bordering on bitterness. "She wants to settle down, get married, start a family, grow old together and be happy." I exhale through my teeth, thinking of Molly, laughing with some tall, faceless man; Molly, grinning as she poses cheek-to-cheek for a wedding photo; Molly, holding a tiny baby with dark eyes like hers; Molly, hair gray and face wrinkled with age, holding hands with a white-haired man, staring off into the sunset peacefully.

My lip curls, but I say nothing. "Yes . . ." Mycroft ponders, still watching my grave get filled. "Very unfortunate that you would fall in love with an ordinary person, Sherlock."

My head whips around sharply, my eyes narrowed as I glare at him. "Molly Hooper is not ordinary."

He simply raises his eyebrows, not agreeing or disagreeing, and our nonverbal battle rages for a couple seconds longer before he looks away. One side of my mouth tugs into a sideways smile, and he gives my now-finished grave one last look before turning to me.

"Just remember, Sherlock," Mycroft says, leaning in closely to whisper, "Caring is not an advantage."

I swallow, hard, contemplating his words and stride swiftly out of the hall, never once looking back.

**Author's Note:**** And that concludes my shortest chapter ever! Wow. Sorry! Next chapter, I promise you, will be longer.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: ****Greetings from an exhausted teenager!**

**To dany1114, the-art-of-escape, katybaggins, Katiefall, EveHunter, MaybeItsJustMyType, Wheezzy8, The Science of Deduction—SH, and Icecat62—how can I thank you enough? I am blown away by the amount of support you all give me. So thank you for following, favoriting, or reviewing my story!**

**the-art-of-escape: As for Mycroft suspecting Molly—you'll just have to wait and see! :D**

**katybaggins: It's clear that we share opinions on a LOT of the same points (I find myself saying, "Oh my gosh! I know right!" when I read your reviews). Mycroft is a very interesting character, but I feel like whenever Sherlock is ready to take a risk and put his heart on the line, Mycroft just holds him back. It's very frustrating! And one of the things Sherlock Holmes is famous for is being an addict. I wanted there to be a reason why he was addicted.**

**Icecat62: I was a little disappointed that Mycroft knew when I was watching the show! I really wanted to see his reaction to his brother's death, so that's why I wrote it in to this.**

**MaybeItsJustMyType: I know—silly Mycroft! :D**

**Wheezzy8: Yes, Sherlock admitted it! (If only it could be canon!) Now all we have to do is wait for Molly to . . . ******

**The Science of Deduction—SH: Thanks for your anatomizing discernment! I look forward to your review each chapter.**

Chapter Eleven:

_Molly_

Two Years Later

I hardly ever think about him anymore. The man with the sweeping black coat. The man with the striking blue-green eyes and the cutting cheekbones who can draw the attention of a crowd simply by walking into a room. Warm breath, soft touch. Lips gently caressing mine, blooming feelings of security and love.

That time is dead now. I've buried it behind me, in the empty coffin that lies underneath a grave reading _Sherlock Holmes. _I can't afford to dwell on it, especially not now, with Tom Theoman in my life.

Tom is great. He's sweet, helpful, and always brings me flowers _exactly _when I need them. When he kisses me, I feel warm and happy and right.

But no one can make me feel the way Sherlock does.

I sigh into the mirror involuntarily, and Mindy Holless squints at me. "What's wrong?"

I put on my brightest smile, but she doesn't buy it. "Molly Hooper," she says sternly, dropping my hair she was in the middle of styling. "What is it?"

I sigh again, this time deliberately, and turn around to face her. "It's just—being with Tom—" I bite the inside of my lip, and look up at her widened eyes, waiting for an explanation. "It reminds me of—Sherlock."

Mindy's face falls into a scowl, and she spins me around again. "You _still _think about him? Molly, he was a jerk!"

I cast my eyes downward, not looking at my reflection. "You didn't know him like I did," I mutter.

Mindy purses her lips but says nothing. She knows when I'm unhappy—she's not my best friend for nothing, even if she has been living in America for the past five years. "C'mon, Molly. You've got an _awesome _boyfriend. I know I'm jealous." When this gets no response out of me, she sighs audibly and twirls me around, her face softening. "Molly, I know you cared about him. But—" Her face composes into one of sympathy and sorrow. "He's dead, Molly. Don't dwell on the past—focus on your new life!" Mindy tries to end on an upbeat tone, and she finishes the very last braid in my hair with a showy, "Voila!"

I giggle, feeling better already at Mindy's dramatics, and I turn my head from side to side, inspecting the flawless job. "It looks great, Mindy. Thanks so much."

She smiles carelessly—almost drunkenly—and flops herself down on my bed with a, "Of course it looks great! Who do you think did it?!"

I laugh at her, splayed out on my bed giggling like a crazy person and smile at how nice it is to have her home, if only for a couple weeks. "Sorry to leave you on your first day back."

"It's fine," Mindy laughs, "It's not like I gave you much notice."

No, she didn't. The doorbell had rung—repeatedly, and in quick succession, for no less than five minutes—while I was in the shower, and I had opened the door, clothed in only a bathrobe and a towel around my wet hair, to see Mindy enveloping me in a hug, asking if she could live on my couch for a couple weeks.

Of course I had eagerly agreed to house my long-lost best friend, my only regret being that I had a date with Tom tonight at a fancy restaurant.

Mindy pushes herself up, her straight brown hair falling over her shoulders and tracing the bottom of her dark crop-top but somehow managing to not get tangled in the countless bracelets circling her arms, spiraling up to her elbows. She looks at me soberly, putting on her Mindy-is-being-earnest face. "So how serious is it with Tom?"

I shrug, sitting back on my chair. "I don't know," I say, because I don't. I've been dating him for a long time, but sometimes I feel like don't even know him.

Mindy glares at me, not liking my answer. Her irises are fascinating; they're pale blue, but the outer edge of them is a dark blue-green, acting as mascara for the bulk of the eye. "You don't think tonight could be . . . _the _night?" My heart thumps, and I try to laugh it off. "_The _night? As in pull-out-a-ring, down-on-one-knee night?" I force another chuckle. "Not in a million years."

But the truth is, no matter how hard I try to push it back and deny it, Tom's been making some hints. We've been dating for over a year now, and his final goal has always been marriage. But I'm not ready to marry Tom.

And honestly, I don't think I'll ever be.

I like where we are, as a couple, but I don't think there will be—I don't even want there to be—any progress.

Want to know a secret?

I do think about Sherlock. Constantly. I think about his sharp, clever eyes, his boyish hair, curly at the tips, just the right color, like melted dark chocolate. I dream about running my fingers through his shadowy locks, his hands fondling me gently, breathing his air, smelling his scent.

That's usually when I wake up, panting and sweating, desperately forcing the memory out my head, squeezing my eyes shut as if I could erase the adulterous thoughts.

But that's the thing about thoughts, dreams, hopes.

They never truly leave.

Mindy raises her eyebrows, obviously not believing me, and half-smirks. "You'll see. This'll be the day, watch it."

I start to roll my eyes, but the doorbell interrupts me. Mindy almost squeals. "That's him!"

I sigh, pretending to be tired of her crazy excitement, but, honestly, I know I've missed it. "Mindy," I complain, "it's just Tom."

"_Just _Tom," Mindy quotes sarcastically, and she herds me out of the room and to the door. "Go, go. I'll just wait in the kitchen." "Wait!" I say, confused. "Don't you want to meet him?"

Her eyes bug in indignation. "And miss the hello kiss? Not for the world!"

I laugh, and open the door as she scurries away. "Hi, Molly!" Tom's cheerful voice sounds, and he swoops to plant his lips on mine.

I feel a tweak of annoyance, imagining Mindy's eager face taking the scene in, but I ignore it and kiss him back. He pulls away and smiles, his eyes flicking up and down, inspecting every inch of my excessively scrubbed and carefully prepared body—the fancy hairdo, the perfect makeup, the lacy white sailor dress—"Wow," he declares, and I blush. "You look beautiful."

I try to focus on his words, concentrate on his awed face, but _his _voice trickles, unbidden, into my thoughts. _You don't look pretty, Molly. Beauty is all relative, a foolish fiction based on society's primitive urge for sex. No. You don't look pretty, Molly. I won't lower you to that._

"Thanks, Tom," I say, gazing at him, tall, sweet, warm. As we leave the flat, I make sure to close the door extra tight, sealing my fate.

This is what I want. This is what I have chosen.

There is no going back.

I was wrong.

I'll admit it. I, Molly Hooper, have made a mistake. A slip-up. A boo-boo, a goof, a flub. I aided Sherlock Holmes. I thought he would repay me. I thought he would, at least, stay with me. I thought I would see him again, that the words he said to me before—_You do count. You've always counted_—meant something, that we would start adventures together, and all would be great and happy and my life would finally begin.

But no. He left me. He left me standing alone in that dark, lonely funeral parlor, banging out the door without even looking back. I had been used, once again, by the despicable conman known as love.

I know better now.

I doubt I'll ever see him again. But if I do, I'll know to tread lightly. If I do, I'll know to watch my step. I'll know, now. I finally understand.

Sherlock Holmes lives and breaths lies.

"Wow," I say, impressed, finishing my last bite of steak. "That was delicious. Where did you find this place, Tom?"

He grins, pleased that I enjoyed it. "I've known about it for years."

We're sitting in the back, in a quiet, tucked-away corner of the posh restaurant, finishing our meal.

I smile at him, and sip my wine. "Thank you for a great evening, Tom. I really enjoyed it."

His grin widens. "It's not over yet! The night is young."

I fight to keep my smile, praying that doesn't mean what I think it means. For the entirety of our time together, I've refused the offer to go back to his place. Whenever he asked me, his simple, ever-present smile on his face, I had to look away, one name burning in the back of my mind, branding me, cursing me.

_Sherlock._

Tom doesn't catch the force in my smile, and instead orders more wine. I feel a rush of relief. Sherlock would've noticed right away. He would've called me out on it, his blank, emotionless face staring right into my soul.

But then again, I wouldn't even be here with Sherlock.

When the wine comes, Tom reaches over and grips my hand. "Hey," he says, "you know how much you mean to me, right?"

I laugh softly, squeezing back. "About how much you mean to me," I reply.

I can tell by his smile that he likes this answer. "Molly," Tom says seriously, "I don't ever want to be without you."

My heart starts pounding, hard, and I can hear a rushing sound in my ears. "What do you—" I start, but then I pull my hands to my mouth and gasp as he gets down on one knee.

_No, no, no, no, no, _a hum starts up in my ears, a tribal chant, a word of foreboding. _No, no, no. _

Tom looks up at me, his face full of hope and light. By now, I am aware of the whole restaurant staring at us, but I can't focus on anything but him. He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a little black box, and my stomach lurches. "Molly," he says, flipping open the box to reveal the ring inside. "Will you marry me?"

_No. Please, God, no._

I am frozen in place, unable to say or do anything. I have no idea what to do. I can't reject him now, in front of the whole restaurant, but I can't marry him, either, _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

I have no idea what's going to come out of my mouth when I open it. "Tom, I . . ."

I trail off, my eyes drifting a bit higher than Tom's eager face. My mouth drops and I stare dumbly at the dark shape behind Tom. The wild chanting is back in my ears, this time singing to a different rhythm—_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

I feel the blood rush to my face and I stare at him, embossed in shadow, unable to read his face. My heart is in a frantic frenzy, and all the memories, all the feelings I've been trying to bury, overwhelm me in one second, all with the undeniable cheer, _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

"Sherlock," I say simply.

He's changed. His biceps and quads have enlarged immensely—he is no longer the skinny, scrawny man I once knew—and the whole of his body has become more muscular. But it's more than that. He stands with the air of a man who has known to much, seen to much, to be anything but on-guard and wary of all.

"Hello, Molly," he replies, his voice monotonous, his face impassive.

Tom whips around behind him to see who I'm talking to, momentarily confused, and I pray he doesn't recall Sherlock's name. "Give me a moment," I murmur to him and, seeing his disappointed, dismayed face, whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Just one second."

Sherlock's already turned around and is walking swiftly out the door, and I hurry to catch up with him, ignoring the flock of people looking both puzzled and dispirited at not seeing a successful proposal. "Sherlock—_wait_!" I stop him just before the door, and he turns to give me a look I can't identify—maybe annoyance, confusion, or distaste—before pushing through the door and walking outside.

I follow him, the wind whipping through my hair and ruining the work by Mindy's careful hands. "Sherlock!" I demand, and I step in front of his face, making him look at me. And he does, gazing sadly down at me, and the look on his face deters me for a second. "Sherlock," I whisper, enjoying his name, drinking in his sight, and deep down in me I feel the gentle stirring of something, something old, something dangerous, something I thought I was rid of, shaking off the dust and rising up in me.

I throw my arms around him and hug him, feeling him stiffen and put his arms unnaturally around my back. I pull away and look up at him, happiness written in my features. "I missed you so much," I tell him, feeling his warmth and closeness.

He takes a step back. "Obviously not," his brisk, professional, distant voice says. I scrunch my eyebrows, confused. "You mean Tom?"

"Yes," he squints, spitting the word, "_Tom._"

I take a breath, annoyance bordering the edges of my thoughts. Good old Sherlock. "Did you expect me to wait around forever?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up, indignant. "_Forever_? I was only gone two years!" "You said twenty!" I say angrily, my voice getting louder. "You didn't even ask me to wait!"

"I thought we had a—" He frowns, searching for the word—"understanding."

I laugh bitterly. "You really know nothing about social matters, do you?" When he glares at me, I explode, "There was nothing _understanding _about it!"

"Well, alright!" he yells, and I pause, shocked for a moment at his raise in voice, and subsequent show of emotion. "You can go back and ruin your life by marrying _Tom _and live out your days the wife of a pervert and an idiot!"

"Well, fine!" I scream, my voice reaching a peak, and I unconsciously come to a decision. "I will! I love Tom and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him!"

I whip away from him and throw open the door. I stride confidently over to our table and lay a hard kiss on my surprised, unsuspecting boyfriend and announce, for all to hear, "Yes, Tom, I will marry you! I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you!"

He exclaims and leaps up to hug me, and everyone in the restaurant claps. I smile and look sheepishly at them, scanning the crowd for the one person I was hoping to get a reaction from, but he's nowhere to be found. I swallow hard and maintain my smile, but inside something sinks, low and cold.

What have I done?

**Author's Note:**** It's my birthday! (This is where you say, "Happy Birthday, Touched By Fire!") On July 2****9****, 2015 (today!), I'm 14! (Cue the chorus of "YAY!") So I decided to give you guys a birthday present of this chapter. :)**

**Sorry it was so long to update. I'm going to a writer's camp in the fall, and I have to submit a partial manuscript for evaluation, so it was a big scramble to get things done.**

**Please review and tell me what you think of this chapter . . . how do you like Mindy? What do you think of the Tom/Molly situation? Let me know!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **** I owe you all an explanation.**

**I haven't updated in literally months, and it must seem like I abandoned you. I am very, very sorry for that. I couldn't find my Sherlock DVDs, so I couldn't write the scene (and I have really bad internet, so I couldn't watch it online, either!) So sorry, guys! I promise I'll make it up to you :P **

**Thank you to bluebird174, Pickledpumpkinpoppers, enp, lady555, obsessiveicequeen, NightOwlLady, and Ginger Redwood for following!**

**And thank you, Ginger Redwood, SoManyFandomsUrHeadExplodes98, and The Dean's Reverie, for favoriting!**

**Also, thanks to Ginger Redwood and Unlucky87 for following moi!**

**Thank you to the-art-of-escape, Ginger Redwood, Wheezzy8, The Science of Deduction—SH, and Icecat62 for reviewing!**

**the-art-of-escape: Thanks :) Okay, so I sort of despise Tom . . . so you'll see. If you share my feelings, I think you'll like it.**

**Icecat62: Yes, they both acted rashly and they both will regret their decisions (as most rash people do). **

**Ginger Redwood: Good, I'm glad you like it :) **

**Wheezzy8: Well thank you :) I think you'll like how she gets out of it.**

**The Science of Deduction—SH: Thanks so much! I figured Molly needed a friend who's not in the show. And, I agree, Molly getting mad at Sherlock was fun to write. **

Chapter Twelve

_Sherlock_

"John, I'm sorry. But—surprise! I'm not dead!"

I frown. That didn't sound right. I force a smile on my face and give my voice a more jovial tone. "John! Old friend! I'm not dead! How great is that?!"

I sigh, gripping the mirror until it hurts, but I know that won't make it any easier. I glare at my reflection, and it glares back at me emotionlessly. I hurl myself away and onto my bed, facedown.

I close my eyes and escape to my mind palace, but it doesn't hold the same magical nothingness that it usually does. It's tainted by two words, just two.

Tom.

And John.

Tom's face, blank and ignorant and unintelligent, smiling—John's face, glaring at me with rage set in his features.

I scream out loud, and my mind palace shatters around me. It feels so good, I scream again—and again, and again, until my voice goes hoarse and Mrs. Hudson is making little fretting noises and pulling at me.

And then it all goes quiet. I stop, and Mycroft's mocking voice plays in my mind palace, _"Emotion, Sherlock. You're letting it consume you. Fight it! I thought you were stronger than that."_

The same words he said to me so long ago, that awful, awful day when we walked into the vet's office and never went back.

I look at Mrs. Hudson, giving her a grim fake-smile like nothing happened. "Tea would be lovely," I tell her, hearing the sarcasm in my voice and not caring.

"Oh, dear," she fusses, and scurries out, and I am alone with my thoughts.

And they are deafening. I leap up and roughly pull my dresser drawers from their slots, searching, searching, _where did I put it, where, where, _ah. I relax, the reassuring sight of the cigarettes underneath my pants relaxing me. I pick them up just as Mrs. Hudson bustles in with the tea. "Here you are—Sherlock—what are you doing—?" The door slamming shut cuts Mrs. Hudson off, and as quick as I can, I light up and take a long, deep breath.

My mind grows tranquil. My thoughts dim, everything dims. It's nice, so nice, so nice to get away again.

Because that's what I did. I got away. I left London, and now I'm back, and I have to face the consequences.

Molly.

Tom.

My calm evaporates.

I stand up, throwing myself into my chair at my desk and opening my laptop. _Click-clack. Clickity-clack. Clack. _My angry fingers fly across the keyboard, making a satisfying _click-clack _sound.

My mind is whirling, spinning around me, disorienting me, and for the first time, it's not because of a case. My mouth is twisted into a snarl, and my brows are scrunched in upset.

Why? Why would she do that to me? Why would she leave me? I had _kissed _her. Didn't she understand what that conveyed? Didn't she understand that I had never before—and probably never again—felt someone else's lips on mine, never even wanted to? Didn't she understand how much she meant to me?

I squint at the bright screen, and words fly through my mind. _I have never seen true beauty until this night . . . As long as I can dream, I will dream of you . . . To love another person is to see the face of God . . ._

The people who wrote these words, these dangerous, terrifying words, they must've meant it, they must've felt _something._

Something like I'm feeling right now.

And maybe they can help.

I put my head in my hands and ruffle my hair, frustrated. My mind spins in an angry blur—anger at Molly, at Mycroft, at Moriarty, and especially at the insufferable_Tom. _All my emotion, all my passion, all my feelings, are bottled up, rising to a great crescendo and I know—I can feel them—that it's going to explode.

And when that happens, no one's going to want to be anywhere near me.

I sigh and force myself to stare at the screen, scrolling through all the famous quotes on love, quotes that have been revered throughout the centuries for a reason, _some reason_—maybe a reason that could help. _You are the last dream of my soul . . . to say your name makes my heart ring like a bell . . . he is my world—without him, there is no world at all. _

Then I see one, at the very bottom of the page, in plain, simple writing, that fills me with hope and sends a smile twitching on my face. _Someone who really loves you sees what a mess you can be, how moody you can get, how hard you are to handle, but still wants to be in your life._

Maybe that's what love is. Maybe its not about wanting the good side, but loving the bad side, too.

I don't know yet.

But I'm learning.

Then another quote catches my eye, one that stills my excited heart and sends a rush of cold through my veins. _If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was._

I look away.

I guess she never truly was mine.

John unlocks the door, and I hear his keys jangle as he walks down the hall. He sighs and mutters fiddles around with things, and I feel my heart race as I stay hidden in the closet.

He pushes the door open—and gasps. His briefcase thuds to the ground as he takes in the words spray-painted in red across his bedroom wall.

_Did you miss me?_

_ This is my cue, this is the time, I have to go now, now, now, _I tell myself, but my legs don't want to move. I hear John making exclamations of shock and _I have to go now, now, NOW!_

I clear my throat and step briskly out of the closet, standing up straight and looking as proper as I can. I allow my customary forced smile to appear on my face and say, "Hello, John."

John's expression drops. Just drops, and much faster than nine-point-two meters per second per second. His eyes bug out and he makes a little noise deep in his throat.

He stares at me.

I swallow. "I know it's not very fair—or very nice, it's not very nice—of me to spring this on you like this . . ." I search his face, checking for a reaction.

He stares at me.

I clear my throat again. "So, yeah, I, uh . . ." I look up again. No reaction. "I, uh, faked my death, yeah." I nod along, as if this could make it all okay.

He stares at me.

"I was threatened!" I assure him quickly, "I didn't _want _to. Believe me, it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, talking to you on that phone. But I _had _to, John." I take a step forward, imploring him.

He stares at me.

I my forced smile turns into a mix of awkwardness and apologetics. "So, um . . ." I grin through my teeth. "Did you miss me?"

He stares at me.

Losing patience, I blurt, "Come on, John, say something!"

He narrows his eyes and frowns. Shutting his eyes—hard—and turning away, he shakes his head, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping. I swallow and bite my lip for the first time in my life. "John—"

"Shut up!" He screams, his face red and his eyes tortured. "Shut up! Just _shut up!"_

I shut up.

I stare at him in stunned silence, at the grim little half-smile on his face, at the surprising lack of color in his eyes. John shakes his head again, always with that awful little smile. "I know you're not real."

_Say whaaaat?_

I narrow my eyes in confusion. I take a step forward, saying, "John—"

"No!" he screams, and I freeze. A couple tears have trickled out, wetting John's face. "Stop it. Stop it. I _saw _you—" He takes a shaky breath and wipes the tears from his cheeks. "I _saw _you jump. You're dead." John shakes his head helplessly. "Dead."

I swallow and stare at him sadly, my heart aching. "What if I told you that I wasn't?"

He opens his mouth to respond, but is stopped by the sound of the front door opening and closing. "John!" a female voice calls out, and John and I freeze, looking like guilty children caught in the act of painting the walls.

"John, I heard you got off early, so I—" The voice stops suddenly, and I look towards the open door to see a very shocked woman staring at the two of us.

She has short blonde hair, brushed back from her face as if to get it out of the way, and she has large, black eyes that mirror John's, in that they are warm and inviting. She's tall—or, at least, taller than John—but she has too many wrinkles for her young age, an aspect that I find interesting—interesting, and a little sad. She's seen a great too many awful things to ever recover from.

_Huh. I wonder _what _sort of awful things she's seen . . ._

The woman looks us both over—taking note of John's crying, hysterical state and my culpable, innocuous one—and approaches John gently, dropping her bags and putting her arms around him. "Hey, hey! What's wrong?" She looks up at me, confused. "What's going on?"

John's eyes widen, and he stares at both of us, shocked. "You—" He takes a breath, staring at the woman—"you can see him?"

She narrows her eyes at him questionably. "What do you mean? Yes, of course I can see him." She stares up at me. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?"

John stumbles backwards, steading himself on the table, and the woman looks at him, concerned, then back at me. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

I stick out my hand, allowing my smile to drop. "Sherlock Holmes."

It's her turn to looked shocked. She stares at my hand but doesn't take it, and I'm forced to drop it embarrassedly.

_I need a cigarette, I need a cigarette, I need a way out of this rotten day, I need a cigarette, I need a cigarette, I need a cigarette._

"You're _who_?" The woman exclaims angrily, her voice nearly cracking. "No, no. You're dead!"

I shake my head. "Not anymore."

Seeing the couple clutching each other, both with identical looks of fury on their faces, I take my cue to leave. "Well, nice seeing you again, John." I gesture to the big bold _Did you miss me? _on the wall. "Sorry about the mess. I'll be in contact." I turn to leave, turning my collar up as I go.

_Something . . . something . . . _

I slam my fist into the desk, feeling out of control. _Something to calm it, _something _. . ._

The cigarettes aren't good enough tonight.

The man downstairs. I know he sells marijuana, but _does he have any tonight?!_

_ "_Sherlock._" _

It's Molly's voice this time, grave and full of utter disapproval. _"You were doing so well."_

_ Well, I'm not anymore, thanks to you._

Silence. A disapproving silence. I can practically hear her tutting.

"God _damn _you, Molly Hooper!" I yell, but Mrs. Hudson doesn't even bother coming in this time.

I need a case.

_I need a case._

I NEED A CASE.

I hear a step on at the door and know who it is without turning around, even before hearing the cheerful, "You wanted to see me?"

And it all flies away.

I turn, composing my expression into one of causal happiness, and say, "Yes!" in the most upbeat manner I know.

"Molly," I say, walking forward, and she replies, "Yes," nervously, looking at me, "Would you . . ." I look down, taking a breath and wondering desperately how to say this. "Would you like to solve crimes?"

"Have dinner?" Molly says at the same time, and we both pause, the awkwardness of the situation hanging like a humidity in the air.

"Um . . ." Molly says.

The next couple of hours are the best I've had in years.

Molly sat right next to me, not in John's chair, but in a different one. Molly's chair. She seemed a little uncomfortable at first.

"Are you sure about this?" she whispers to me, and I could smell a faint raspberry scent coming off of her hair.

"Absolutely," I say with conviction, walking over and taking a seat in my chair.

"Should I be making notes?" she asks, voice still low, and by the look on her face I can see that she really wants to do this right.

I don't care about notes. I remember it all, anyways.

"If it makes you feel better," I tell her.

"Well, it's just that that's what John says he does," Molly says, sounding a little worried, like she was scared that she was doing it wrong. "So if I'm being John—"

"You're not being John, you're being yourself," I say to her, feeling almost a shock run through me. Did she really think she was just John's _replacement?_

I don't catch the look on her face.

I hold her hand comfortingly as she cries. Her palm is sweaty. I resist the urge to pull my own cool, dry hands away, but instead say, in a grave, sympathetic voice, "And your pen-pal's emails just stopped, did they?"

The girl chokes back a sob and nods, and for once, I feel for her. It must be hard—really hard—to lose someone you thought you loved.

I should know.

I take a deep breath. "And you really thought he was the one, didn't you?" I ask, a trace of genuine sadness trickling into my voice, and suddenly, I feel wretched. "The love of your life?" I look over to Molly, and she looks up from her notes, and our eyes meet for a second, just a second, and I see in her eyes that she remembers that time, so, so long ago, at the funeral.

And then it's over. I get up and walk over to her, keeping my voice low. "Stepfather posing as online boyfriend."

"What?!" Molly exclaims softly, her voice a peculiar mixture of dejection, compassion, and contained anger, and the emotion in her voice, the emotion that she feels for this girl, whom she just met, shocks my heart.

"Breaks it off, breaks her heart," I say, Molly's anger becoming contagious. "She swears off relationships, stays at home." I can feel it blooming inside of me, adding to the other, trapped emotion inside of me. "He still has her wage coming in."

I turn around and shoot daggers at the stepfather. "Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter—"

_Well. What came next was—I can hear John's voice right now—not good._

"Sorry," I mutter to Molly as the stepfather and his sobbing girl leave. "I didn't mean to fly off the handle like that—"

"No, no, it's okay," Molly says, still sounding a bit shocked, like she didn't recognize me. _I don't even recognize me. _I clear my throat, and my phone bleeps out a text alert. I glance at it. "Lestrade. Let's go."

"This one's got us all baffled," Lestrade says as he rips the yellow caution tape off of the aged oak door. He had been surprised, to say the least, when he saw Molly and I working together, but he hadn't commented.

"Hmm, I don't doubt it," I tell him, and the three of us walk down the stairs together in a large, dank room.

Lestrade turns on bright spotlights, revealing a yellow skeleton, calmly sitting at a desk, fully clothed in a black suit.

I narrow my eyes at it and stride over to the desk, mindful of Lestrade's wary eye on me as I pull out my magnifying glass and inspect the suit itself. _Dusty. Well, duh._ I take a long, hard sniff, trying to identify—_is that pine? Spruce? What . . . ah. Cedar. New mothballs. _

I sniff again. There's something else . . . carbon particulate. _Fire damage. _

I stand up, putting away my magnifying glass with a self-satisfied snap. _I still got it._

Molly notices my complacent air, but doesn't seem to mind. "What is it?" she asks, her notepad out.

I get out my phone and do a quick search for **Recent Fires at Nearby Museums.**

Molly has a little excited smile on her face. "You're onto something, aren't you?" she asks, and a little thrill runs through me that she knows me well enough to recognize that.

I downplay it. "Hmm, maybe," I say, while all my being screams out _Yes, yes, of course I'm onto something! Scotland Yard's baffled, but this is everyday stuff for me! _

John's voice runs through my head. _Show off._

God, I miss him.

"Shut up, John," I whisper to myself. It takes me a second to realize I said it out loud.

"What?" Molly asks, confused, and I scramble for an answer. "Hmm? Nothing."

I lean over and fiddle with the collar on the skeleton, checking for **Goodrich Museum Fire Damage Sale**. Lestrade looks a bit awkward. He leans over and whispers, "This is going to be you new arrangement, is it?"

"Just giving it a go," I say back, voice low, turning over the sleeve to inspect the underside.

"Right," Lestrade says, looking at Molly in a way I can't quite identify. "So, John?"

I take a breath, just the mention of his name aloud sending a stab through my heart. "Not really in the picture anymore."

Molly looks up when I say that, and by the look on her face I can tell she's been listening the whole time. She fidgets and looks at me expectantly, pen poised and ready.

I crouch down and look at the corpse from afar, seeing all of it. _Almost there, almost there. _

Molly walks over to it, almost hesitantly, and examines the skull. "Male," she says distantly, "forty to fifty . . ."

She sees me looking at her and mistakes my stifled surprise and respect. "Oh, sorry, did you want to—"

"Oh, no, please, be my guest," I tell her, gesticulating invitingly, swallowing back my uncomfortableness. It's not often I have someone working with me who has a deeper knowledge in a particular field than I.

_You jealous? _John chides me, and I hiss out loud, "Shut_ up!"_

Truth is, I kind of like it.

Lestrade looks at me strangely but says nothing.

I open my magnifying glass again and inspect the fingers. Molly scrutinizes the neck above me and I can feel her, feel her closeness—so near and yet so far.

"It doesn't make sense," Molly says bewilderedly, stepping back from the skeleton. "What doesn't?" Lestrade asks.

I gently blow dust off of the table, revealing the black spots on the wood underneath.

"This skeleton," Molly says, puzzlement still present in her voice, "it can't be any more than . . .

"Six months old," we say together, and she looks at me. I can't look back.

I pop open a drawer in the desk and gently take out an old, faded book. I blow the dust off of it and internally sigh. _How disappointing. _I show it to Molly, the title written in delicate, loopy writing:

_How I Did It by Jack the Ripper_

"Wow," Molly says breathlessly. I plop the book on the table, a big spoof of dust rising up from the crater.

Lestrade leans over to read it, squinting. _He needs reading glasses. _"_How I Did It _by Jack the Ripper," he reads, astonishment clouding his voice.

"Mmh-hmm," I say, decidedly unimpressed.

"That's impossible!" Molly exclaims, astounded, and I retaliate with, "Welcome to my world." _Smart arse, _I hear John say, and I mumble incoherently.

Lestrade's grinning, like he can't believe what a great case he's got. I internally sigh. I'm tired of it already. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining to you," I say, knowing full well they have no idea what I'm talking about.

"No, please, insult away," Lestrade says cheerfully, pride completely in check, and as I start to walk away I hear John's sardonic, _You forgot to put your collar up. _I pause, sigh, and turn back.

"The, the corpse is, is six months old, it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for years." _Duh. _John—_Oh, now we're back to patronizing again, eh?_

I bite my lip and continue. " . . . in a case facing southeast, judging from the fading of the fabric." Molly squints at the suit like she's never seen it before, and I feel the rush of being way ahead of somebody—and yet somehow, always so far behind. I shake it off. "It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago." I flash my phone at Lestrade, knowing he won't need to actually see the information. _Take that._

Lestrade's scratching his head with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. "So the whole thing was a fake?"

"Yes," I tell them curtly, and turn to leave. "But it looked so promising!" Lestrade protested, sounding like a disappointed man who got the wrong end of a one-night-stand. "Facile!" I call back, not waiting for them.

"But why would someone go to all that trouble?" Molly asks, her pen still poised, and I inadvertently smile. _Finally, someone's asking the right questions. _"Why indeed, John," I answer, not even noticing my mistake.

It's snowing. By the time Molly and I arrive at my other client's house, even my impenetrable bones are starting to shake in chill. I want to give Molly my coat, but given the current shaky state of our relationship, I didn't think a cliche would do much good. Besides, then I'd be cold.

I press the doorbell and a nasally voice saying, _Mind the gap, _alerts the occupant of the facility to our arrival. Molly titters, and I internally smile.

Our client, who can only be described as a nerdy loser, opens the door to my outstretched hand, holding his hat. "Oh." He seems surprised. "Thanks for holding on to it."

"No problem," I say evenly, and we walk in. "So," I say, ignoring the all-around messiness—and, well (there's no other word for it), _train_-iness of the home, "what's this all about, Mr. Shilcott?"

"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours," Shilcott says, and I can't help it, I burst into laughter. "Girlfriend," I sputter at the absurdity, and he looks back at me, offended. I glance at Molly. _Well, love does have the ludicrous way of springing on unexpected people. _I clear my throat. "Sorry, do go on."

"I like trains," he says, and the surplus amount of locomotives in the house grin back at him.

_Um. _"Yes . . ."

"I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it's been cleared. I was just whizzing through," he says, sitting down at his computer, "and I found something a bit bizarre."

_Bizarre? Oh, my! _I make an over-exaggerated "Oh!" face at Molly, and she looks away to keep from laughing, her mouth crinkled in that perfect grin that someone has when they're trying to be mature but just can't.

I walk forward to look over Shilcott's shoulder at the computer screen, already bored. Obviously it could be explained away by some sort of logic. This was a waste of time.

_Oh, well. At least I got to spend time with Molly._

"Now this was a week ago," Shilcott says, and Molly walks over his other shoulder to take a look. "The last train on the Friday night, Westminster Station. Now this man gets into the last car—" A middle-aged gentleman carrying a briefcase steps into the Tube on the screen as Molly interrupts him, a teasing smile on her face as she repeats, "Car?"

Shilcott sighs, with the tired air of someone who has repeated something far too many times before. "They're cars, not carriages. It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system."

Molly's trying to hide a smile. "He said he liked trains," I tell her in undertone, feeling a need to defend him, at least mockingly. Molly just smiles, amused.

"And the next stop," Shilcott continues, playing the video again, "St. James Park station . . ."

I pull my eyes away from Molly long enough to focus on the computer screen. "And . . ." The last carriage's—_car's . . . I'll have to put that in my mind palace_—doors slide open, revealing . . . nobody.

_Well. It doesn't happen very often, but I'll admit it. I was wrong. _

_ This _is_ intriguing._

"I thought you'd like it." Shilcott sounds pleased with himself. "He gets in the last car at Westminster, the only passenger . . ." My eyes dart around the screen, searching, searching for a way out, but . . . nothing.

" . . . and the car is empty at St. James' Park station." Shilcott looks up at me, a challenge in his voice. "Explain _that, _Mr. Holmes."

"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" Molly asks, her voice breaking through my cloud of concentration.

"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit," Mr. Does-Indeed-Love-Trains Shilcott tells Molly.

"But there's something else," Shilcott says, "The driver of the train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."

I look at Molly. "Bought off?"

She looks at me, and blinks. "Hmm?"

I stifle a sigh, and Molly looks down, as if mad at herself for not answering. "So the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger did get off." _Or maybe he just bippity-bobbity-booed himself away to a mystical fairy land!_

"There's no where he could go. It's a straight run on the District line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels. Nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops and a man vanishes. Good, innit?" Shilcott grins at me, pride radiating in all directions.

I stop, and squint at the man on the screen. Something . . . something . . .

"I know that face," I say, and I close my eyes.

I'm in my mind palace, and I running, I'm sprinting, I'm flying. I'm flying through every room, searching through every little detail, looking, looking for that man. Somewhere . . . something . . !

I'm standing on the stairs, the real stairs. I don't know how I got there. Molly is walking up the stairs, eyes fixed on me. She opens her mouth—

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes, that journey took ten minutes. Ten minutes to get from Westminster to St. James' Park. So I'm going to need maps, lots of maps," I say, walking down the steps, "Older maps, all the maps." "Right." Molly looks uncertain.

_Oh, God. How am I going to do this?_

"Fancy some chips?" I ask her, not looking her in the eye. "What?" She sounds confused. "I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road, the owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" Molly sounds amused.

_Wouldn't you like to know. _"No, I helped him put up some shelves."

She doesn't see me grin.

But she does laugh. She always knows when I'm lying. Then her voice fades to seriousness. "Sherlock?"

I sigh internally. I know what this is about. "Hmm?"

Molly pauses on her descent down the stairs. "What was today about?"

I look up at her clear, brown eyes, knowing mine are clouded and shady. "Saying thank you."

I can't read the look she gives me. "For what?"

She reaches the bottom stair as I say, "For everything you did for me." My words are ringing with truth and I look at her, really look at her, for the last time in what will be a while.

"It's okay." She sounds awkward. "It's my pleasure."

_She thinks I'm just saying it. Like I always have. How do I convince her that this time truly is real?_

"No." She stops and turns around slowly. "I mean it."

"I don't mean "pleasure" I mean I didn't mind. I wanted to."

"Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake." _Don't make the mistake of interpreting gentleness for weakness, because you will soon find that the kindest fight the hardest for the ones they love._ "Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person who mattered the most." _The devil's in the details, after all—or in this case, the angel. _"You made it all possible." _Without you, Molly, I would be dead. How can I possibly say thank you for that? How can I possibly repay you? _

I take a deep, deep breath, and say the words that have been shadowing me all day. "But you can't do this again, can you?"

Her lips pull into a rueful smile. "I had a lovely day." She takes a breath. "I'd love to, I'd just . . . um . . ." She looks down at her finger.

_Tom. _The name rings like wrong note on my violin, utterly dissonant and repulsive.

"And congratulations, by the way," I say, looking down at the simple—_far too simple, he's far too cheap—_one-diamond engagement ring on her finger.

She gives a little—almost bitter—laugh as our eyes gaze at that damned ring. "He's not from work."

I smile so wide I almost laugh.

"We met through friends, old-fashioned way. He's nice, we . . . He's got a dog, we . . . we go to the pub on weekends, and I've met his mum and dad, his friends and all his family—" She's babbling. _I love it._

"I've no idea why I'm telling you all of this," she finishes, almost breathlessly.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," I tell her, and I mean it. I mean it with all my heart and soul. I want Molly to be happy like I want to breathe.

But the thing is? I want to be happy, too.

But I guess some people's joy is more important.

"You deserve it," I say simply, careful not to let traces of sorrow fall like tears into my words. "After all," I say, with a hint of humor, "Not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths." I pause, feeling dark, cold raindrops fall in my mind palace, and suddenly we are the only ones here, the only ones in the universe, just me and Molly, Molly and me, and we are alone and happy together forever.

"No," I say aloud, and the illusion disintegrates. _You are the last dream of my soul. But there are dreams that cannot be. _I take a step forward, looking at her, absorbing her, memorizing her. She looks so, so scared, like seeing me was all wrong and awful and terrifying.

Maybe it was.

I smile, and this time, my smile is real. I imagine my life from this point on, and images fly around me—sitting sullenly at a wedding where Tom kisses an overjoyed Molly; watching them laugh together, sitting across from them in 221B; meeting a little baby who looks like Molly for the first time, but seeing Tom in it too; visiting Molly at her house and having Tom greet me at the door.

It's okay. I can deal with it. I'll deal with it for Molly. For Molly.

And suddenly I've overcome with an overwhelming sadness, and I _need _Molly, need to touch her and feel her warmth. And I just can't resist any longer, and I reach over and kiss her—just for a moment, just on the cheek.

It's the last kiss I'll ever get.

I pull back and Molly has recoiled as if my lips are poison. Her eyes are closed in what seems like pain, and she's obviously fighting something, something I don't understand.

It's over. It's done. I will not mourn for Molly Hooper any longer; that chapter of my life I finished. I turn away from Molly, from the woman I must stop loving, and leave her standing alone in that cold, dismal room. I feel rejuvenated, like I made the right decision. I walk briskly out the door, not looking back.

**Author's Note:**** I've kind of let Sherlock go in this chapter, especially in the beginning—swamped in such emotion, he didn't know really what to do.**

**Let me know what you think, as always. Will update soon! (No, really—I promise.)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:**** Ha! See, I told you I'd update soon!**

**Well. Soonish.**

**Thanks to Icecat62, the-art-of-escape, Stargazer, and Guest for reviewing, and thanks to LouLouBear1213 for following! It really means a lot.**

**Icecat62: Haha, you'll see! I think you'll like it ;)**

**Guest: Thanks! I love experimenting with Sherlock and emotions, and wondering how his character would react to certain situations.**

**the-art-of-escape: Thanks! And BELIEVE me, I know about being behind on Fanfiction!**

**Stargazer: Thanks so much for your input! Good to know what you want to see—I'll make sure to incorporate it.**

Chapter Thirteen

_Molly_

_He smiles at me—a smile so soft and so sad that my heart aches to kiss it away—and he leans in to touch a kiss gently to my cheek. That moment freezes—time stops and everything else goes away, and his lips breathe warmth into my skin, a warmth that spreads throughout my entire body, a warmth that pumps through my veins and swiftly grows into fire, a fire that consumes me, overwhelms me, a fire that screams the wrong name._

_ He pulls back and I take a shuddering breath, feeling a pain almost physical as I curse him for striking the match under my dry timber. I let him walk away, alone, into the snow before saying, "Maybe it's just my type."_

_ My type. My type is sociopaths._

_ No._

_ My type is Sherlock Holmes._

I sit bolt upright, panting hard. I feel the wet tears on my face, and quickly wipe them away. Gosh, I hope I didn't wake—

"So," a cynical voice cuts into me, and I snap my head to where it's coming from. Mindy is sitting at my desk chair, staring at me, amusement flirting in her eye. "_What _is your type, exactly?"

I turn crimson, then frown at her and turn on the lamp by my bed. "Do you watch me sleep often?"

"No," Mindy says with ease, crossing her legs on my desk, "just when you scream 'Sherlock' instead of the name of your fiancé."

I purse my lips, my mind whirling to come up with a response. "He—Sherlock was just—"

Mindy gives me a disapproving look. "Don't lie to me, Molly. I _know _when you're lying."

I sigh, pulling my covers around me, and Mindy's eyes soften. "Okay! Okay. We won't get into it, at least not today."

I cock my head at her. "Today? What's so special about . . ." My eyes widen. "Oh!"

Mindy laughs. "Go get ready for the wedding. I'll be waiting."

I throw off the blankets. "Are you sure you don't want to—"

"No, no, no. You go have fun with . . . your fiancé." I could've sworn Mindy hesitated before she said "fiancé". "I don't even know John and Mary."

I give my best friend a rueful smile as I speed-walk to the shower.

"I thought the ceremony was beautiful, didn't you, Molly?" Mrs. Hudson gushes, still clutching her handkerchief.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," I agree, trying to keep up with the rather oblivious Tom as he makes his way ahead of the crowd, dragging me along with him.

We go into reception area, a bright, cheery place with big windows, and lots of sunlight streaming through them, and Mrs. Hudson goes off with Lestrade to find something to drink, leaving me alone with my fiancé.

I love _Tom—_I do. I really, really do. But I can't help but think how handsome a certain best man looked in his sleek black suit.

_No. _I grab onto Tom—always so hard because he's so tall—and start kissing him—really kissing him, kissing him hard, kissing him long, kissing him all over. He seems surprised and a bit taken aback and is about to say something when the wedding photographer comes over. He takes a couple shots, thanks us, and walks off. I slow my attack and come to a stop. I can't meet Tom's eyes.

Because while I was kissing him, I didn't feel a thing.

Finally, I hear the words I have been both looking forward to and dreading—"Pray silence for the best man."

Here it comes.

They're not going to know what hit them.

We all clap for Sherlock as he stands up, and I can feel Tom stiffen next to me as he realizes who it is. I put my hand comfortingly over his, but his gaze doesn't waver from Sherlock.

Sherlock puts his hands behind his back and stares at us all. _He's nervous, _I realize with a little thrill. How . . . human of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, and . . . um . . ." I swear to God he looks straight at Tom—" . . . others."

"Uh . . ." Sherlock stares at us, each of us individually, I can visibly see his train of thought crashing. "Also . . ."

I stare at him, hard, silently willing him to keep talking. John mutters something, and Sherlock starts, and fishes around in his pockets.

Oh, dear.

"First things first," he says, holding up several index cards. "Telegrams!" He pauses, and amends, "Well, they're not actually telegrams, we just call them telegrams, I don't know why. Wedding tradition." He says it like he's saying, "gum stuck to my shoe". "Because we don't have enough of that already, apparently," he mutters as an afterthought, and John and Mary—and the rest of the congregation—look at him sharply.

_"Greg," I say as he comes into the morgue._

_ "Molly—"_

_ "I just had a thought," I rush on, cutting him off. He glances down at the bowl in my hand. "Is that a brain?"_

_ "What if John asks Sherlock to be his best man?" I ask, ignoring him. Lestrade tears his eyes away from the cerebrum in my arms and replies, "Well, he will, I mean, he's bound to."_

_ "Exactly," I say worriedly, anxiety attacking my every nerve._

_ "So?" Greg doesn't seem concerned._

_ "So, he'll have to make a speech." I wait for the gravity of my words to sink in. "In front of people. There will be actual people there actually listening."_

_ I can see the gears turning in his head. Like, _What? Oh . . . Oh . . . craaaaap._ "Well . . ." he says, his face convoluted with sudden realization. "What's—what's the worst that could happen?" he tries._

_ I bite my lip. "Helen Louise probably wondered the same."_

_ "Helen Louise?" Lestrade inquires doubtfully._

_ I look down at the brain in my arms, and back up at him. He swallows._

_"Oh, hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson says on the line. _

_ "I—I was just thinking," I say later that day, clutching the phone in one hand and a neuralizer in the other. "If John does ask Sherlock . . ."_

_ "What, the speech, dear? I know, it'll be fine," Mrs. Hudson says cheerfully, as unconcerned as Lestrade was. _Why am I the only one freaking out about this?!

_ "It's not just the speech though is it?" I tell her, and there's a long pause, and then a loud thud, and then, in the background, something like hysterical laughing. I just hang up._

I have to physically keep my hands down to keep from burying my face in them. Tom gives me a side glance, like _Can you get a load of this guy? _My cheeks turn pink.

"John Watson," Sherlock proclaims loudly. He gestures to his ex-flatmate. "My friend, John Watson. John.

"When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused."

I stifle a titter. Oh, John told me about this. John had spent nearly five minutes trying to explain to Sherlock how much he cared about him. Sherlock had no idea.

Which is so . . . cute?

"I confess at first I didn't realize he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and surprised."

I frown and look at Greg just as he looks at me. That's not the version we were told.

"I explained to him that I had never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it."

I remember ". . ." being the main response Sherlock gave, according to John in the group text with the three of us.

"I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated."

I can feel a smile spreading, unbidden, across my face.

"Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very . . . _close _to being moved by it."

John looks baffled.

"It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud—"

The room bursts into the small titters acceptable at a wedding, and Sherlock looks surprised—but nevertheless continues on, getting yet more notecards from his jacket.

"So . . ." Sherlock mutters, thumbing through the cards. "Done that . . . done that . . . done that bit, that bit . . ." He suddenly straightens and looks at us all. I swallow.

"I'm afraid, John, I can't congratulate you."

I take a deep breath and grip Tom's hand. He looks down at my own like he hasn't quite seen it before, and I remove mine and set it under the table.

"All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things." A chill runs through me, and his eyes meet mine, and for a second, they seem sad. Then they drift away, glancing around the crowd. I look down.

"A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world." A cool, dead tone has overtaken Sherlock's voice, and all the laughter from before has been dried up, the audience wary and almost combative.

"Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species."

Even Greg's looking at him as if he's mad now. John and Mary are exchanging glances, the guests whispering. Tom's surely mentally gloating—that'll be fun later. I have no idea how this is going to work at all.

Sherlock's gaze seems to hold a bit longer after this phrase, as if—shock!—noticing people's negative reactions. "But, anyway, let's talk about John.

"If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me."

John smiles, hiding his—not exactly _embarrassment, _but my-best-friend-is-Sherlock-Holmes-this-is-how-I-live-and-if-you-judge-me-you're-just-an-arse -ment—and just, sort of, accepting it.

"Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes in truth from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides."

John takes a breath, and lets it out. I feel a sudden anger for Sherlock. How could he _do _this on the single most important day of John's life? Insult him in front of everybody? Embarrass him in front of his family and friends? In front of his new wife's family and friends?

"It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day—"

That whore maid of honor, Janine—who was falling all over Sherlock before, like the disgusting tramp she is—looks up at Sherlock now like he's—well, like he's insulting her in front of everyone. Come now, Janine! It can't be the first time it's happened.

"There is a certain analogy there, I feel. And contrast is, after all, God's own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation—" Here Sherlock stops, considers, and amends it with, "Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to offer a career opportunity for the family idiot."

Mary buries her head in her hands. And Tom mutters, "What a tosser." I fight the urge to smack him—both of them.

And it's like he's realized what he's done again, and he takes a deep breath, as if preparing for something hard. I hold my own breath.

"The point I'm trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet."

I feel the tears starting in the back of my throat because I know, I know that he believes what he's saying wholeheartedly. And I know that he knows it, and accepts it . . . is maybe a little sad about it, but does not believe he can change.

Oh, Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock, you already have.

"I am dismissive of the virtuous . . ." A glance towards the priest he's already severely insulted—"unaware of the beautiful . . ." One for—a look for _Janine_?! _Janine, _beautiful?! What about—there's a whole room of beautiful girls here! What about Mary or—or Mrs. Hudson—or—or—or _me_?!

"And uncomprehending in the face of the happy." He gives John and Mary a sad smile. "So if I didn't understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody's best friend."

Sherlock. _Sherlock. _Never expected to be a friend. Never expected to be a lover. Never expected anything because he didn't deserve it. Didn't want anything out of life, didn't wish for anything. He certainly wasn't the child who left lists out for Santa, eagerly awaited morning so he could check for change underneath his pillow, burst outside to search for eggs in spring, dress up and ask for candy in the fall. No. No, that clearly wasn't Sherlock.

But he seems to be wishing, to be wanting now. And, dammit Life, you better give him a chance.

I look at Greg and fight the lump forming in my throat. Not here. _Not _here. Not in front of Tom, oh God above.

"And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

I can just hear Mindy in my head now: _Funny, the crowd seems to love him now. _If only she'd been able to hear this!

John seems to be fighting tears as well. "John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship." He takes a breath. "But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion." He pauses, and I see a flicker of a smile on his face, as if he were remembering something, something important, and I see warmth in his eyes—not so much see the warmth as _feel _it, radiating all the way back to this table. "Actually, now I can."

John looks up at Sherlock, surprised, and Mary's face explodes with into a grin. My heart melts.

"Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss—so sorry again about that last one—"

I burst into laughter, even though the lump in my throat is still present. Tom shushes me and I glare at him. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

"So know this, today you sit between the woman you have made your wife, and the man you have saved . . ." He stops. Swallows. I can see the words running through his head: _Saved. Saved? Yes, saved._

"In short, the two people who love you most in all this world."

The guests _adore _him.

"And I know I speak for Mary when I as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

I can hear Mrs. Hudson sobbing quiet loudly in front of me, and I pull out my handkerchief and dab at my eyes. This is much, much more than a normal wedding-cry. John clears his throat and pretends like he's scratching his eye. Greg sitting next to me is scrunching up his face like he's holding his own tears back and Tom—Tom looks very, very unmoved. I suck in a breath.

Sherlock thumbs through his cards again. "Ah, yes, now on to some funny stories about John—" He cuts off abruptly, suddenly noticing the significant increase in crying guests. "What's wrong, what happened, why are you all doing that?"

I sit back in my chair, biting my lip to keep myself from smiling too hard, a warm happy feeling growing inside of me.

"John?" Sherlock sounds worried, scared. "Did I do it wrong?"

And that was the exact moment I knew I was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

My breath stops.

My blood freezes.

All I can see is his beautiful blue-green eyes.

All I can hear is the cadence of his voice, rising and falling in perfect harmony with the beats of my heart.

And my heart explodes into a frenzy.

"Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?" Sherlock asks, and I turn at Lestrade next to me . . . as does the rest of the room. Lestrade looks like he wants to disappear.

"Yeah, you," Sherlock continues, about the "Mayfly Man" case. "You're a detective, broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

I swallow, feeling rather like I'm back in primary school, where the teacher calls on students at random for the answer—_don't make eye contact, don't make eye—_what am I doing.

"Er, um . . ." Lestrade struggles to remain casual. "If—If the blade was propelled through the, through the um . . . grating in the air vent . . . maybe a ballista or a catapult, someone tiny could crawl in there . . ." Lestrade trails off, obviously knowing he's bullshitting, just sort of saying words to say them. It would be funny if it wasn't so embarrassing for him.

"So yeah, we're looking for a—a dwarf," Lestrade finishes, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Sherlock looks at him. "Brilliant."

"Really?" Lestrade asks hopefully.

"No."

Lestrade sits back, expecting nothing more from this point.

"Next!" Sherlock calls, just as Tom whispers to us, "He stabbed himself!" like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Before I can respond—

"Hello, who was that?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, please no. God, _please _no.

Sherlock's eyes come to rest on my finance. "Tom?"

Tom pushes back his chair so LOUDLY, the screeching like nails on a chalkboard, and stands up. I can already feel my face getting red, and every fiber of my being _begs _him to sit down and shut up.

Sherlock looks at him, sizing him up. "Got a theory?"

Tom shifts from one foot to the other. "Um, attempted suicide with a blade made of compacted blood and bone."

I want to disappear.

"Broke after piercing his abdomen like a meat . . ."—_don't say it_—"dagger."

Cancel that last order. I want to die.

There's muffled laughing from the back of the room, and I burn with sudden fury towards Tom. It's like everyone's judging me, _everyone, _because I chose this idiotic, pompous fool to be my wedded husband.

"A meat dagger," Sherlock repeats, disbelief meeting disregard meeting incredulity with just a _little _bit of amusement thrown into the reunion.

"Yes," Tom says, sounding way too confident.

And I can't help myself anymore. "Sit down," I hiss, and he looks at me, almost confused, but does as I say, still looking bemused as to why Sherlock hadn't accepted his theory.

"No," Sherlock continues, "There was one . . ."

But I don't hear any one it, burning with shame and mortification as I am. Until I hear—

"Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night," Sherlock says—rather too cheerfully, based on my recollection of what happened. "'Course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

I almost laugh, forgetting my wretched feeling for a moment as I remember Sherlock coming into the lab a day before.

"Murder scenes," I ask confoundedly, looking up from the papers Sherlock's given me, fighting through my confusion to be normal around him. "Locations of murders?"

"Mmm, pub crawl, themed." He seems pleased with himself.

"Yeah, but why couldn't you just do Underground stations?" I ask, squinting at the paper again.

Sherlock makes the most atrocious face. I have to stifle a laugh. "It lacks the personal touch! We're going to go for a drink in . . ."

"In every street where you found a corpse," I finish for him, looking up and into his eyes, as if to say, _See, Sherlock? I still know you better than you know yourself._

"Delightful!" I continue. "Where do I come in?"

"Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it, spoil the mood," he says. He seems remarkably . . . normal. Like he's not Sherlock. Like he's . . . a normal person.

It's weird.

And confusing. "You're a graduate chemist, can't you just work it out?" I ask him, my heart rate accelerating, and my mouth burning to ask the real question: _Is that really the reason you came to see me, or is it just an excuse?!_

"I lack the practical experience," he tells me, then smiles one of his rare smiles, like he said something oh-so-funny.

My throat tightens and I turn to stare at him. "Meaning you think I like a drink?"

He nods. "Occasionally."

"That I'm a drunk?" I say, my jaw locking. _It was just one time, one time in my youth—_

"No—no!" he replies quickly, his eyes widening as if startled. Satisfied somewhat with this response, I say nothing, just continue to stare at him. The silence drags on as I wait for him to say something.

He swallows uncomfortably. "You look . . ." I see him giving me a once-over with his eyes and I internally flinch with self-consciousness—" . . . well."

I pause for a moment, then slowly nod, considering the events that happened with Sherlock _not _in my life—my brother's wedding, meeting Tom, Mindy coming to stay. "I am," I tell him mostly truthfully, trying to believe every word, but I know my eyes tell a different story, the story of a young girl, innocent and alone, corrupted by a criminal mastermind and in love with a pathological asshole, only to have him leave her, standing alone at the funeral parlor, with a burden to heavy for her to bear alone.

"How's . . ." Sherlock takes a minute, eyes flicking this way and that, as if trying to remember something, even though I'm not sure if I believe him. He looks at me questionably. "Tom?"

"Not a sociopath," I respond cheerily, purposefully trying to stab him.

"Still? Good," he nods.

"And we're having quite a lot of sex," I say, trying to sound happy. I peer at his face, seeing if I can get a reaction to my bold-faced lie.

He squints, eyes darting everywhere but my face, and he swallows. I can just _see _the words in his mind palace, _Okay, enough with that. _

"Ookay," he says aloud, exhaling swiftly and taking a folder out of his coat. "I want you to calculate John's ideal intake and mine—" He slaps the folder, full of remarkably detailed diagrams, on the table—"to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Lightheaded good—"

"Urinating in wardrobes bad," I finish, looking over the charts. He glances at what I'm inspecting. "Hmm," he says, a satisfied sound.

Tom thought Sherlock had gone mad, but I knew that wasn't the case. I remember stabbing my ever-so indulgent fiancé with that plastic fork without regret, though I'm sure there will be a severe case of injured pride when we get home. But right now I don't even care.

It's night now, and everyone in the hall has that nice feeling of having consumed a comfortable amount of alcohol. I make a point of _not _being near Tom as the guests surround the dancing hall for John and Mary's first dance as a married couple, abandoning him by Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I find myself next to that purple whore, Janine—I mean, who wouldn't prefer yellow to a wedding, yellow is a prettier color and besides it's happier, and why would she wear the dress so low-cut, it's like she's trying to attract the bad kind of attention, what is _wrong _with her—and while all the guests watch the new Watsons dance a classic waltz, the smiles on their faces bright enough to make up for the lack of sunlight, I can't seem to keep my eyes off of Sherlock. His bow glides gently across the string in a smooth, beautiful fashion, and the look in his eye and the small smile on his lips make him seem content. Happy.

Not a look I'm used to seeing on his face.

I sigh, looking up at him, the man I thought I once loved, the man who broke my heart, the man—the man who wasn't actually all that rough. Or abrasive. The man who could actually be sweet, and kind, and not realize it—just like he was doing now. John did that to him, I think—though perhaps John would say I did it to him, if he knew what I had done. But maybe not. Maybe I did absolutely nothing to Sherlock, made absolutely no impact, that I was like a gentle breeze to him while he was a storm to me, maybe, just maybe, he'd actually forgotten my name when he was gone and he was just being Sherlock, just being manipulative, and just deceiving me _again._

But maybe not.

I can't think like that.

Because I can't live in a world where that's true.

The song ends and everyone claps . . . Janine maybe a little bit more energetically than most. "Whoo!" she yells, looking at Sherlock. "Yeah!"

Sherlock eyes her, then tosses his boutonnière to her. My smile sours as she catches it, screeching like a demented monkey.

Sherlock approaches the mike. "Ladies and gentlemen, just one last thing before the evening begins properly.

"Today we saw two people make vows. I have never made . . . I have never made . . ." Here he falters, and he looks over at me, and our eyes meet, and I can tell he's remembering the time, oh so long ago, when his mouth was on mine and mine on his and I could just taste the joy and merriment on his lips.

Because a kiss is a kind of vow, too.

And suddenly I know that I cannot marry Tom.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I have never made a _real_ vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again." I swear his eyes dart over to mine once again, and for some reason, I feel tears stinging at the back of my throat. I look down.

"So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow." Sherlock looks at the happy couple in the middle of the dance floor. "Mary and John. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you."

Um.

"Uh, I'm sorry, I mean two of you, all two of you. Both of you, in fact, I just miscounted." Sherlock looks nervous as he hastily amends his statement, but I don't buy it. I narrow my eyes and fix them on the newlywed Watsons, now shifting uncomfortably in the middle.

Could it be?

I resist a gasp. Of course! Mary is _pregnant!_

"Anyway! It's time for dancing! Play the music again, please, thank you." The music starts up, and Sherlock steps away from the mike. "Okay, everybody, just dance. Don't be shy. Dancing, please, very good." Sherlock makes his way towards John and Mary in the middle, trying to act as innocent as possible.

I walk _away _from the purple slut and try to get lost in the crowd so Tom won't see me. I watch Sherlock and the Watsons talk in the middle and, judging by the couple's reaction, I was correct. I stifle a squeal. They'll tell when they're ready.

Sherlock smiles, and John and Mary go off to dance, mingling in and out of the crowd.

I watch them dancing, dancing for the world to see, and I see John twirl Mary around, and Mary's face crinkle in a smile, and John's eyes sparkle, bright and warm and full of love. I can't help but imagine what might be my own wedding, and Tom's eyes on me, and know that somehow, I won't be nearly as happy.

And that I just _can't_ do that.

"You look sad."

I turn, startled. "Oh, Sherlock! I didn't hear—"

"When you think he can't see you," Sherlock continues, ignoring my small talk. I let my facade drop and he notes it, walking forward and staring down at me. Sorrow is dripping off his words and his eyes are rueful, showing me all the if-only's and what-could've-have-been's in my life. The music fades to a distant hum. He stops only a foot away from me, and I feel the once-familiar rush of heartbeat bombarding me once again. His blue-green eyes gaze at me. "Are you okay?" He searches my face, and I hear my own words made new in his voice. "And don't just say you are, because I know—_I know_—what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

I let out a breath, staring at him, and this time I can't stop a tear from spilling over onto my cheek. I laugh a little and wipe it away. "You can see me."

He takes another step forward, and then we are way too close, _way _too close, and I want to lean my head in a little and—

I take a tiny step back, and his face changes. His eyes are sad. "You must have realized by now, Molly."

I hold my breath. Another tear is just a second away from falling.

"I don't count."

He turns away, and I watch him go, feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach as he picks up his coat and leaves the dance hall.

"Great wedding!" Tom says, taking off his coat and setting it on my couch. I bite my lip and turn to face him. "If you don't count the part where you embarrassed me beyond belief."

"What?" Tom looks genuinely confused. "When?"

I sigh, throwing my own coat down. "The meat dagger, Tom! The—the—" I bury my head in my hands and exhale.

"Molly, the man was being an arse!" Tom exclaims, stepping forward. He places his arms on my shoulders and I look up from my hand-grave, glancing at them. He looks me in the eye. "It doesn't matter now. We're going to get married and be happy."

That does it. I step backward out of his clutches and finger my ring. "Tom . . . that doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore."

Tom opens his mouth, then closes it again and swallows before he says, rather harshly, "Molly, what are you _talking _about?"

I stare at the cheap, one carat diamond on my finger and look back up at him. "I'm not sure I want to get married."

He tightens his jaw, gesticulating jerkily. "Well, you said 'yes', didn't you?"

I slowly remove the ring from my finger and look up at him. "I've changed my mind, Tom."

He inhales sharply. "It's because of Sherlock, isn't it."

I bite my lip—hard—to keep from _screaming _at him. "_Why _does everyone think that? I am my own person! No one _makes _me change my mind!" I stare at him. "I change my own mind!"

He pauses. Swallows. Then, "Other people have been saying it too, huh? That proves it."

I curl my hands into fists and then close my eyes, counting to ten silently in my head. "Thomas—"

"Give it up, Molly!" Tom throws his arms in the air. "He's never going to love you back! Why do you possibly think you can change him?!"

"OUT!" I scream, pointing to the door. "Get out! And if you ever come back I swear to God I will call the cops!"

Tom grabs his coat and stalks towards the door. At the last second he hesitates, turning around and starting, "Molly—"

I hurl the ring at him with as much force as I can. It hits him squarely in the nose, the hard, the sharp diamond drawing blood, and falls to the floor, where it rests, the dark crimson adulterating the sparkle of the gem.

I look up, but Tom is gone.

**Author's Note:**** Aha! That was fun. **

** I'll be updating fairly soon, I believe. After next chapter, as I will have run out of canon scenes to adapt (not counting the newly released Sherlock Special *squeal*). I'm excited! Are you? (But don't worry, Sherlock and Molly still have many a hardship to triumph over before we can lay their story to rest.)**


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